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ROADS 

SHEILA  KAYE-SMITH 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE   FOUR  ROADS 


SHEILA      KAYE-SMITH 


THE 

FOUR    ROADS 

BY 

SHEILA   KAYE-SMITH 

Author  of  "  Sussex  Corse"  "  The  Challenge 
to  Sirius,"  etc. 


NEW  ^5^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PART  I 

TOM 



.       .       .        9 

PART  II 

JERRY 



.       .       .       66 

PART  III 

THYRZA  . 



.       .       .     115 

PART  IV 

153 

PART  V 

NELL 



.      211 

PART  VI 

BABY     -  . 

. 

.      241 

PART  VII 

MR.  SUMPTION 

..... 

-      264 

2040832 


THE  FOUR   ROADS 


THE 

FOUR     ROADS 

PART  I:       TOM 


FOUR  roads  in  Sussex  mark  out  a  patch  of  country 
that  from  the  wooded,  sea-viewing  hills  behind 
Dallington  slips  down  over  fields  and  ponds 
and  spinneys  to  the  marshes  of  Hailsham  and  Horse 
Eye.  The  North  Road,  slatting  the  heights  with  its 
pale,  hard  streak,  runs  from  far  Rye  to  further  Lewes, 
a  road  of  adventures  and  distances,  passing  Woods 
Corner  and  Three  Cups  Corner,  Punnetts  Town  and 
Cade  Street,  till  it  joins  the  London  Road  at  Cross-in- 
Hand.  The  South  Road  borders  the  marsh,  sometimes 
dry  on  the  shelving  ground  above  it,  sometimes  soggy 
on  the  marsh  level,  or  perhaps  sheeted  with  the  over- 
flow of  the  Hurst  Haven.  It  comes  from  Senlac  and 
Hastings,  and  after  skirting  the  flats,  crosses  the  River 
Cuckmere,  and  runs  tamely  into  Lewes,  where  all  roads 
meet.  The  East  Road  is  short  and  shaggy,  running 
through  many  woods,  from  the  North  Road,  which 
it  joins  at  Woods  Corner,  to  the  throws  at  Bore- 
ham  Street.  Along  this  road  is  a  string  of  farms — 
Cowlease,  and  Padgham,  and  Slivericks,  mangy  hold- 
ings for  the  most  part,  with  copses  running  wild  and 
fields  of  thistles,  doors  agape  and  walls  atumble,  and 
gable-ends  stooping  towards  the  ponds.  The  West 


10  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Road  is  grass-grown,  and  in  July  St.  John's  wort  and 
rest-harrow  straggle  in  the  ruts  and  make  the  dust 
smell  sickly-sweet.  It  forks  from  the  North  Road  at 
Punnetts  Town,  and  runs  through  Rushlake  Green  and 
the  Foul  Mile  to  Hailsham  in  the  south. 

In  the  swale  of  the  day,  towards  Easter-time,  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Sumption  was  walking  along  the  North 
Road  from  Dallington  to  Woods  Corner.  Dallington  is 
the  mother-parish  of  the  country  bounded  by  the  Four 
Roads,  though  there  is  also  a  church  at  Brownbread 
Street,  in  charge  of  a  curate.  Mr.  Sumption  had  no 
truck  with  either  Rector  or  curate,  for  he  was  a  min- 
ister of  the  Particular  Baptists,  who  had  a  Bethel  in 
Sunday  Street,  as  the  lane  was  called  which  linked  the 
East  Road  with  one  that  trailed  in  and  out  of  farms 
and  woods  to  the  throws  at  Bucksteep  Manor.  Not 
that  the  sect  of  the  Particular  Baptists  flourished  in  the 
parish  of  Dallington,  but  the  Bethel  being  midway  be- 
tween the  church  and  the  chapel,  a  fair  congregation 
could  be  raked  in  on  wet  Sundays  from  the  middle 
district,  where  doctrine,  like  most  things  in  that  land 
of  farms,  was  swung  by  the  weather. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Sumption  was  a  big,  handsome 
man  of  forty-five,  and  wore  a  semi-clerical  suit  of 
greenish-black,  with  a  shabby  hat  and  a  dirty  collar. 
His  face  was  brown,  darkening  round  the  jaw  with  a 
beard  that  wanted  the  razor  twice  a  day,  but  did  not 
get  it.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  sunk  deep  in  his  head, 
gleaming  like  deep  ditch-water  under  eyebrows  as 
smooth  and  black  as  broom-pods.  His  teeth  were  very 
white,  and  his  hair  was  grey  and  curly  like  a  fleece. 

As  he  walked  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  from  time 
to  time  cracked  the  joints  of  his  fingers  with  a  loud 
rapping  sound.  These  two  habits  helped  form  the  local 
opinion  that  he  was  "queer,"  an  opinion  bolstered  by 


TOM  11 

more  evidence  than  is  usual  in  such  cases.  Women 
standing  in  their  cottage  doors  noticed  him  twice  halt, 
and  stoop — once  to  pick  up  a  beetle  which  was  labori- 
ously crawling  from  ditch  to  ditch,  another  time  to  pick 
up  a  swede  dropped  from  some  farm-cart.  He  carefully 
put  the  beetle  on  the  opposite  bank — "  Near  squashed 
you,  my  dear,  I  did.  But  He  Who  created  the  creeping 
things  upon  the  earth  has  preserved  you  from  the  boot 
of  man."  The  swede  he  dusted  and  crammed  in  his 
pocket.  It  was  known  throughout  the  hamlets — the 
"  Streets  "  and  "  Greens  "—of  Dallington  Parish  that 
the  minister  was  as  poor  as  he  was  unblushing  about 
his  poverty. 

The  evening  was  very  still.  Eddies  and  swells  of 
golden,  watery  light  drifted  over  the  hills  round  Dal- 
lington. In  the  north  the  sharp,  wooded  hill  where 
Brightling  stood  was  like  a  golden  cone,  and  the  kiln- 
shaped  obelisk  by  Lobden's  House  which  marked  the 
highest  point  of  South-east  Sussex  was  also  burnished 
to  rare  metal.  The  scent  of  water,  stagnant  on  fallen 
leaves,  crept  from  the  little  woods  where  the  primroses 
and  windflowers  smothered  old  stumps  in  their  pale 
froth,  or  spattered  with  milky  stars  the  young  moss  of 
the  year.  At  Woods  Corner  the  smoke  of  a  turf  fire 
was  rising  from  the  inn,  and  there  was  a  smell  of 
beer,  too,  as  the  minister  passed  the  door,  and  turned 
down  the  East  Road  towards  Slivericks.  The  fire  and 
the  beer  both  tempted  him,  for  there  was  neither  at 
the  Horselunges,  the  tumble-down  old  cottage  where 
he  lodged  in  Sunday  Street.  But  the  former  he  looked 
on  as  an  unmanly  weakness,  the  latter  as  a  snare  of  the 
devil,  so  he  swung  on,  humming  a  metrical  psalm. 

About  a  hundred  yards  below  Woods  Corner,  just 
where  the  road,  washed  stony  by  the  rains,  runs  under 
the  webbing  of  Slivericks  oaks,  he  turned  into  a  field, 


12  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

across  which  a  footpath  led  a  pale  stripe  towards  Sun- 
day Street.  From  the  top  of  the  field  he  could  look 
down  over  the  whole  sweep  of  country  within  the  Four 
Roads,  to  the  marshes  and  the  sea,  or  rather  the  saf- 
fron and  purple  mists  where  the  marshes  and  the  sea 
lay  together  in  enchantment.  The  yellow  light  wavered 
up  to  him  from  the  sunset,  over  the  woods  of  Forges 
and  Harebeating;  there  was  a  sob  of  wind  from  Stil- 
liands  Tower,  and  a  gleam  of  half-hidden  ponds  in  the 
spinneys  by  Puddledock.  Mr.  Sumption  stood  still  and 
listened. 

The  air  was  full  of  sunset  sounds — the  lowing  of 
cows  came  up  with  a  mingled  cuckoo's  cry,  there  was 
a  tinkle  of  water  behind  him  in  the  ditch,  and  the  soft 
swish  of  wind  in  the  trees  and  in  the  hedge,  nodding 
ashes  and  sallows  and  oaks  to  and  fro  against  the  light- 
filled  sky.  On  the  wind  was  a  mutter  and  pulse,  a 
throb  which  seemed  to  be  in  it  yet  not  of  it,  like  the 
beating  of  a  great  heart,  strangely  remote  from  all  the 
gleam  and  softness  of  spring  sunset,  pale  fluttering 
cuckoo-flowers,  and  leaf-sweet  pools  of  rain.  A  black- 
bird called  from  the  copse  by  Cowlease  Farm,  and  his 
song  was  as  the  voice  of  sunset  and  April  and  pooled 
rain  .  .  .  still  the  great  distant  heart  throbbed  on,  its 
dim  beats  pulsing  on  the  wind,  aching  on  the  sunset, 
over  the  fields  of  peaceful  England  dropping  asleep  in 
April. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Sumption  cracked  his  fingers 
loudly  once  or  twice : 

"  You  hear  'em  pretty  plain  to-night  ...  the  guns 
in  France." 


He  walked  slowly  on  towards  the  stile,  then  stopped 
again  and  pulled  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket.     It  was  a 


TOM  13 

dirty    letter,     written    on     cheap    note-paper    with    a 
smudged  in  indelible  pencil. 

"  Dear  Father,"  it  ran,  "  I  reckon  you'll  be  wild  when 
you  get  this.  I  have  left  the  Fackory  and  have  en- 
listed in  the  R.  Sussex  Regement.  I  could  not  stand 
that  dirty  tyke  of  Hubbard  our  forman  any  more.  So 
I've  gone,  for  I'm  sick  of  this,  and  there's  no  fear  of 
my  being  fetched  back,  as  I'm  not  satis fackory  nor 
skilled  in  particular,  and  should  have  been  fetched  out 
anyhow  all  in  good  time,  I  reckon.  So  don't  go  taking  on 
about  this,  but  please  send  me  some  fags,  and  I  should 
like  some  chockolate,  and  get  some  of  those  kokernut  buns 
at  the  shop  with  the  crinkly  paper  round.  It  is  a  week 
since  I  did  it,  but  I  have  been  to  the  Y.M.C.A.,  and 
bought  some  Cherry-blossom  boot-pollish  and  a  packet 
of  Players,  and  have  no  more  money,  and  they  said  on 
a  board  '  Write  home  to-night.'  Well,  dear  Father,  I 
hope  you  will  not  take  this  too  badly.  Some  good  may 
come  of  it,  for  I  am  a  soldier  now  and  going  to  fight  the 
Germans.  Good-bye  and  don't  forget  to  send  the  things 
I  said. 

"  Your  loving  son, 

"  JERRY. 

"  (467572  Pvte.  Sumption,  9th  Co.  i8th  Bn.  R.  Suss. 
Rejiment.)" 

The  minister  crushed  the  letter  back  into  the  pocket 
already  bulging  with  the  swede.  "  O  Lord,"  he  groaned, 
"  why  doth  it  please  Thee  to  afflict  Thy  servant  again  ? 
I  reckon  I've  stood  a  lot  on  account  of  that  boy,  and 
there  seems  no  end  to  it.  He's  the  prodigal  son  that 
never  comes  home,  he's  the  lo=t  sheep  that  never  gets 
into  the  fold,  and  yet  he's  my  child  and  the  woman 
from  Ihornden's  ..."  His  mutterings  died  down,  for 
he  heard  footsteps  behind  him. 


14  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

A  young  man  was  crossing  the  field  from  Slivericks,  a 
sturdy,  stocky  fellow,  about  five-and-a-half  feet  high, 
with  leggings  and  corduroy  riding-breeches,  and  a  black 
coat  which  was  a  little  too  small  for  him  and  as  he  drew 
near  sent  out  an  odour  of  moth-killer — evidently  some 
young  farmer,  unaccountably  Sundified  on  a  week-day 
evening. 

"  Hullo,  Tom,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Hullo,  Mus'  Sumption." 

The  boy  stood  aside  for  the  older  man  to  cross  the 
stile.  His  head  hung  a  little  over  the  unaccustomed 
stiffness  of  his  collar,  and  his  eyes  seemed  full  of  rather 
painful  thought.  Mr.  Sumption  fumbled  in  his  pockets, 
drew  out  the  letter,  the  swede,  a  pencil  without  a  point, 
a  Testament,  a  squashed  mass  of  chickweed,  a  tract,  and 
finally  a  broken-backed  cigarette,  which  he  handed  to 
Tom. 

"  Bad  news,  I  reckon  ?  " 

Tom  nodded. 

"  They  woan't  let  me  off.  I  wur  afeard  they  wouldn't. 
You  see,  there's  faather  and  the  boys  left,  and  I  couldn't 
explain  as  how  faather  had  bad  habits.  You  can't  bite 
back  lik  that  on  your  own  kin." 

"  No,  you  can't,"  and  Mr.  Sumption  carefully 
smoothed  a  dirty  scrap  of  paper  as  he  put  it  back  in  his 
pocket.  "  By  the  way,  my  boy's  just  joined  up.  I 
heard  from  him  this  morning.  He's  in  the  Eighteenth 
Sussex — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  found  yourselves 
together." 

"  Lord,  Mus'  Sumption !  You  doan't  tell  me  as  he's 
left  the  factory?" 

"  Reckon  he  has.  Thought  he'd  fike  to  fight  for  his 
King  and  country.  He  was  always  a  plucked  'un,  and 
he  couldn't  bear  to  see  the  lads  going  to  the  front  with- 
out him." 


TOM  15 

There  was  a  gleam  in  the  minister's  eyes,  and  he 
cracked  his  fingers  loudly. 

"  I'm  proud  of  him — I'm  proud  of  my  boy.  He's  done 
a  fine  thing,  for  of  course  he  need  never  have  gone.  He's 
been  three  years  in  munitions  now,  and  him  only  twenty. 
He  went  up  to  Erith  when  he  was  a  mere  lad,  no  call  for 
him  to  go,  and  now  he's  joined  up  as  a  soldier  when 
there  was  no  call  for  him  to  go,  neither." 

Tom  looked  impressed. 

"  Maybe  I  ought  to  be  feeling  lik  he  does,  but  truth 
to  tell  it  maakes  me  heavy-hearted  to  be  leaving  the 
farm  just  now." 

"  The  Lord  will  provide." 

"  I'm  none  so  sure  o'  that,  wud  faather  and  his  habits, 
and  the  boys  so  young  and  wild,  and  the  girls  wud  their 
hearts  in  other  things,  and  mother,  poor  soul,  so  un- 
sensible." 

"  Well,  what  does  the  farm  matter  ?  Beware  lest  it 
become  Naboth's  vineyard  unto  you.  Is  this  a  time  to 
buy  cattle  and  vineyards  and  olive-yards?  This  is  the 
day  which  the  Prophet  said  should  burn  like  an  oven,  and 
the  proud,  even  the  wicked,  be  as  stubble.  What's 
your  wretched  farm?  Think  of  the  farms  round  Ypers 
and  Dixmood,  think  of  the  farms  round  Rheims  and 
Arrass — Stop !  "  and  he  seized  Tom's  arm  in  his  hard, 
restless  fingers — "  Listen  to  those  guns  over  in  France. 
Perhaps  every  thud  you  hear  means  the  end  of  a  little 
farm." 

Tom  stood  dejectedly  beside  him,  the  broken-backed 
cigarette,  for  which  the  minister  had  unfortunately  been 
unable  to  provide  a  light,  hanging  drearily  from  his  teeth. 
The  soft  mutter  and  thud  pulsed  on.  The  sun  was 
slowly  foundering  behind  the  woods  of  Bird-in-Eye, 
sending  up  great  shafts  and  spines  of  flowery  light  into 
the  sky  which  was  now  green  as  a  meadow  after  rain. 


16  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  This  war  queers  me,"  he  said,  and  his  voice,  low  and 
thick  as  it  was,  like  any  Sussex  countryman's,  yet  was 
enough  to  drown  the  beating  of  that  alien  heart.  "  I 
doan't  understand  it.  I  can't  git  the  hang  of  it  nohow." 

"  A  lot  of  it  queers  me,"  said  Mr.  Sumption,  "  and  I 
reckon  that  in  many  ways  we're  all  as  godless  as  the 
Hun.  It's  not  only  the  Germans  that  shall  burn  like 
stubble — it's  us.  The  oven's  prepared  for  us  as  well  as 
for  them." 

They  were  walking  together  down  steep  fields,  the 
ground  dreamy  with  grey  light,  while  before  them,  be- 
yond the  sea,  burned  the  great  oven  of  the  sunset,  full 
of  horns  of  flame. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  the  farm,"  continued  Tom,  his  mind 
sticking  to  its  first  idea.  "  I'm  willing  enough  to  go  and 
fight  for  the  farms  in  France  and  Belgium,  but  seems 
to  me  a  Sussex  farm's  worth  two  furrin'  ones.  Worge 
aun't  a  fine  place,  but  it's  done  well  since  I  wur  old 
enough  to  help  faather — help  him  wud  my  head  as  well 
as  my  arms,  I  mean.  Faather's  an  unaccountable  clever 
chap — you  should  just  about  hear  him  talk  at  the  pub, 
and  the  books  he's  read  you'd  never  believe.  But  he's 
got  ways  wot  aun't  good  for  farming,  and  he  needs  some- 
body there  to  see  as  things  doan't  slide  when  he  can't 
look  after  them  himself." 

"  Can't  your  brother  Harry  do  anything?  He  must  be 
nearly  sixteen." 

"  Harry's  unaccountable  wild-like.  He's  more  lik  to 
git  us  into  trouble  than  help  us  at  all." 

"  Maybe  your  father  will  pull-to  a  bit  when  you're 
gone  and  he  sees  things  depend  on  him." 

"  Maybe  he  will,  and  maybe  he  woan't.  But  you 
doan't  understand,  Mus'  Sumption.  You  doan't  know 
wot  it  feels  like  to  be  tool:  away  from  your  work  to  help 
along  a  war  as  you  didn't  ask  for  and  don't  see  the  hang 


TOM  17 

of.  Maybe  you'd  think  different  of  the  war  if  you  had 
to  fight  in  it,  but  being  a  minister  of  religion  you  aun't 
ever  likely  to  have  to  join  up.  I'm  ready  to  go  and  do 
my  share  in  putting  chaps  into  the  oven,  as  you  say, 
but  it's  no  use  or  sense  your  telling  me  as  it  doan't 
matter  about  the  farm,  for  matter  it  does,  and  I'm  un- 
accountable vrothered  wud  it  all." 

He  grunted,  and  spat  out  the  fag.  Mr.  Sumption, 
taking  offence  at  once,  waved  his  arms  like  a  black 
windmill. 

"  Ho !  I  don't  understand,  don't  I  ?  with  my  only 
son  just  gone  for  a  soldier.  D'you  think  you  care  for 
your  dirty  farm  more  than  I  care  for  my  Jerry.  D'you 
think  I  wouldn't  rather  a  hundred  times  go  myself  than 
that  he  should  go?  O  Lord,  that  this  boy  should  mock 
me!  You'll  be  safe  enough,  young  Tom.  You've  only 
the  Germans  to  fear,  but  my  lad  has  to  fear  his  own 
countrymen  too.  The  army  was  not  made  for  gipsy- 
women's  sons.  My  poor  Jerry !  .  .  .  there  in  the  ranks 
like  a  colt  in  harness.  He'll  be  sorry  he's  done  it  to- 
morrow, and  then  they'll  kill  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  hold  your 
tongue,  Tom  Beatup!  Here  we  are  in  Sunday  Street." 


Sunday  Street  was  the  lane  that  linked  up  Font's 
Green  on  the  East  Road  with  Bucksteep  Manor  at  Four 
Throws.  From  the  southern  distance  it  looked  like  the 
street  of  a  town,  oddly  flung  across  the  hill — a  streak  of 
red  houses,  with  the  squat  steeples  of  oasts,  an  illusion 
of  shops  and  spires,  crumbling  on  near  approach  into  a 
few  tumble-down  cottages  and  the  oasts  of  Egypt  Farm. 
From  the  north  you  saw  the  chimneys  first,  high  above 
the  roofs  like  rabbits'  ears  above  their  heads ;  then  you 
tumbled  suddenly  upon  the  hamlet:  the  Bethel,  the 


18  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Horselunges,  the  shop,  the  inn  whose  sign  was  the  Rifle 
Volunteer,  the  forge,  the  pond,  the  two  farms — Worge 
and  Egypt — with  their  cottages,  and  the  farmstead  of 
Little  Worge  sidling  away  towards  Font's  Green. 

To-night  it  was  fogged  in  the  grey  smoke  of  its  own 
wood  fires,  with  here  and  there  on  its  windows  the 
lemon  green  of  the  sky.  It  smelled  faintly  of  wood- 
smoke,  sweet  mud  and  standing  rain,  of  rot  in  lathes 
and  tiles.  The  Horselunges,  the  cottage  where  the 
minister  lodged,  was  the  first  house  in  the  village  after 
the  forge.  It  stood  opposite  the  Bethel,  a  brick,  eight- 
eenth-century building  with  big  gaunt  windows  staring 
blindly  over  the  fields  to  Puddledock.  The  Bethel  had 
been  built  in  Georgian  days  when  the  Particular  Bap- 
tists flourished  in  greater  numbers  round  Sunday  Street, 
and  a  saint  of  theirs  had  built  it  to  "  the  glory  of  God 
and  in  memory  of  my  dear  wife  Susannah  Odlarne, 
saved  by  Grace.  For  Many  are  called  but  Few  are 
chosen." 

Mr.  Sumption  and  Tom  had  walked  the  last  of  their 
way  in  silence.  But  the  minister's  anger  had  fizzled 
out  as  quickly  as  it  had  kindled,  and  at  the  door  of  the 
forge  he  held  out  his  hand  very  kindly  to  the  boy. 

"  Well,  good-night  to  you,  lad.  I  must  look  in  and 
see  Bourner  here  for  a  minute  or  two.  I  hope  your 
mother  won't  be  much  distressed  at  your  news." 

"  Reckon  she  will,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  .  .  .  Funny, 
you  doan't  hear  the  guns  down  here." 

"  No  more  you  do,  but  they're  going  it  just  the  same — 
knocking  away  little  farms." 

Tom  nodded  with  a  wry  smile  and  walked  off.  The 
minister  turned  into  the  forge. 

Mr.  Sumption  could  never  pass  the  forge,  and  the  glow 
and  roar  of  sparks  from  its  chimney  would  call  him  over 
many  a  field,  from  Galleybird  or  Harebeating,  or  even 


TOM  19 

from  the  doors  of  sick  people — if  they  were  not  very  sick. 
He  was  a  blacksmith's  son. 

His  father  had  worked  the  smithy  at  the  cross-roads 
by  Bethersden  in  Kent,  and  Ezra  Sumption  had  grown 
up  in  the  smell  of  hoof-parings  and  the  ring  of  smitten 
iron.  His  sketchy  education  finished,  he  had  taken  his 
place  beside  his  father  at  the  anvil — he  had  held  the 
meek  tasselled  hoofs  of  the  farm-horses,  he  had  worked 
the  great  bellows  that  sent  the  flames  roaring  up  the 
chimney  like  Judgment  Day,  he  had  swung  the  heavy 
smith's  hammer  with  an  arm  that  in  a  few  years  grew 
lustier  than  his  dad's,  and  in  time  had  come  to  cast  as 
good  iron  and  clap  it  on  as  surely  as  any  smith  in  Kent. 

But  during  his  adolescence  strange  things  had  grown 
with  his  bulk  and  girth.  Lonely  and  Bible-bred,  he 
came  to  work  strange  dreams  into  the  roaring  furnace 
and  clanging  iron.  In  those  sheeting,  belching  flames 
he  came  to  see  the  presage  of  that  day  which  should 
burn  like  an  oven,  the  burning  fiery  furnace  of  Shad- 
rach,  Meshach  and  Abed-nego,  through  which  only 
those  could  walk  unsinged  who  had  with  them  the  Son 
of  God.  When  he  swung  the  hammer  above  his  head 
he  swung  God's  judgment  down  on  the  molten  iron, 
shaping  out  of  its  fiery  torment  a  form  of  use.  When  the 
horse  clumped  out  of  the  smithy  with  the  new  iron  on 
his  hoofs,  he  felt  that  there  went  a  soul  saved,  a  child  of 
God  passed  through  fire  into  service. 

He  became  "  queer."  He  spoke  his  thoughts,  and  in 
time  preached  them  to  the  men  who  brought  their  horses 
to  be  shod.  His  father  jeered  at  him,  his  mother  was 
afraid,  but  the  minister  of  a  neighbouring  chapel  took 
him  up.  He  thought  he  had  found  a  rustic  saint.  He 
invited  young  Sumption  to  his  house,  taught  him,  and 
encouraged  him  to  enter  the  ministry.  The  parents  were 
flattered  by  the  pastor's  notice,  and  he  found  little  dirfi- 


20  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

culty  in  persuading  them  to  let  their  boy  leave  the  forge 
and  train  as  a  minister  of  the  Particular  Baptists. 

Rather  bewildered  and  scared  at  the  new  life  before 
him,  young  Ezra  Sumption,  comely,  burly,  shock-headed, 
brown-skinned  as  a  mushroom  in  a  wet  field,  passed  into 
a  training  college  of  the  sect,  and  emerged  a  full-blown 
pastor,  with  black  clothes  on  his  unwieldy  limbs  and  a 
tongue  for  ever  struggling  with  the  niceties  of  English 
speech.  He  was  a  great  disappointment  to  his  benefactor, 
for  the  smith  in  him  had  triumphantly  survived  all  gen- 
teel training  and  theological  examinations ;  he  was  to 
all  intents  the  same  boy  who  had  heard  voices  in  the  fire 
and  had  preached  to  the  carters.  His  manners  and  con- 
versation had  slightly  improved,  and  his  imaginings  had 
been  given  a  dose  of  dogma,  but  his  rough  uncouthness, 
his  "  queerness  "  remained  as  before.  He  was  an  utter 
failure  as  assistant  pastor  in  a  chapel  at  Dover — the  con- 
gregation was  shocked  by  the  violence  and  vulgarity  of 
his  forge-born  similes,  his  Judgment  Day  appeals,  all  the 
spate  and  fume  of  the  old  Doomsday  doctrines  which 
were  fast  dying  out  of  Nonconformity.  He  pined  for  the 
country,  and  seemed  unable  to  conform  to  town  habits. 
On  his  holidays  he  went  back  to  the  forge  and  helped  his 
father  with  the  shoeing  as  if  he  had  never  worn  a  black 
coat.  It  was  on  one  of  these  holidays  that  he  finally 
damned  himself. 

In  a  cottage  at  Ihornden  where  he  had  gone  to  visit  a 
sick  woman  he  met  a  gipsy  girl  of  the  Rossarmescroes  or 
Hearns.  Her  people  had  given  up  their  wandering  life, 
and  settled  down  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  they 
owned  several  cottages.  Nevertheless,  to  marry  her,  as 
Sumption  did  soon  after  their  third  meeting,  was  his 
pastoral  suicide.  He  took  her  with  him  to  Dover,  where 
they  were  both  miserable  for  a  few  months.  Then  he 
had  to  give  up  his  post.  They  returned  to  the  forge  at 


TOM  21 

Bethersden,  where  Sumption  would  have  liked  to  be- 
come a  blacksmith  again,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  con- 
tinual restless  yearning  of  the  Word  within  him,  that 
drop  of  the  divine  which  had  somehow  mixed  with  his 
clay,  and  made  him  drunken. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  Meridian  Sumption  died  at 
the  birth  of  her  child.  They  had  been  ideally  happy  in 
their  short  married  life,  in  spite  of  the  cage-bars  of  cir- 
cumstances and  the  drivings  of  the  Word  which  divided 
them  as  in  the  beginning  it  had  divided  the  waters  from 
the  earth.  After  her  death  he  became  "  queerer  "  than 
ever.  He  roamed  from  village  to  village,  preaching  to 
farmers,  gipsies,  labourers,  tinkers,  all  who  would  hear 
him  and  some  who  would  not — leaving  his  child  in  his 
mother's  care. 

Six  years  later  the  death  of  his  father  and  mother 
made  it  necessary  that  he  should  take  the  boy — named 
grotesquely  Jeremiah  Meridian,  as  if  to  show  his  double 
origin  in  religion  and  vagabondage.  At  the  same  time 
his  first  patron,  the  minister  of  Bethersden,  offered  to 
recommend  him  for  the  pastorate  of  the  Particular  Bap- 
tist Chapel  at  Sunday  Street  near  Dallington.  His  con- 
science had  long  grieved  over  the  vagaries  of  his  black- 
smith saint,  and  in  this  empty  pastorate  he  saw  a  way  of 
settling  both.  Sumption  had  acquired  a  certain  fame  as 
a  preacher  among  the  'dens  of  Kent,  candidates  for  the 
Particular  Ministry  were  not  so  many  as  they  used  to  be, 
and  the  pastorate  of  Sunday  Street,  with  its  dwindling, 
bumpkin  congregation,  country  loneliness,  and  small 
revenues,  was  hard  to  fill.  After  various  difficulties,  the 
new  minister  arrived  with  his  black-eyed,  swarthy  child. 
He  had  grown  tired  of  his  wanderings,  and  had  con- 
ceived an  erratic,  arbitrary  affection  for  this  pledge  of 
gipsy  love.  He  looked  forward  to  a  settled  country  life 
and  to  preaching  the  Word  in  his  own  Bethel. 


22  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

The  villagers,  for  the  most  part,  liked  him.  His 
manners  offended  them,  and  as  they  were  mostly  Church- 
people  they  seldom  came  to  his  chapel  except  on  wet 
Sundays,  when  it  meant  too  much  dirt  and  trouble  to  go 
to  hear  old  Mr.  Foxe  at  Dallington  or  young  Mr.  Poul- 
lett-Smith  at  Brownbread  Street.  But  from  the  first  he 
was  as  one  of  themselves,  treated  with  no  respect  and 
much  kindness.  He  was  seldom  invited  to  sick-beds  or  to 
officiate  at  funerals  or  marriages,  but  he  never  lacked  an 
invitation  to  a  Harvest  Supper  or  Farmers'  Club  Dinner. 
For  his  sake  the  neighbourhood  tolerated  the  villainies 
of  his  Jerry,  a  throw-back  to  the  poaching,  roving,  thiev- 
ing Rossarmescroes.  None  the  less,  they  were  glad  when 
at  the  outbreak  of  war  he  went  to  work  in  a  munition 
factory,  first  in  London,  then,  through  a  series  of  not  very 
creditable  wanderings,  to  Erith.  Only  the  minister 
grieved,  for  he  loved  Jerry  as  he  had  loved  no  human 
thing  since  his  mother  died  in  the  little  apple-smelling 
room  above  the  smithy.  He  was  not  always  kind  to  the 
boy,  and  the  arm  which  had  wielded  the  hammer  so 
lustily  had  on  one  or  two  shocking  occasions  nearly 
broken  the  bones  he  loved.  But  he  had  for  his  son  a 
half-spiritual,  half-animal  affection,  and  the  villagers 
pitied  him  when  the  boy  went,  though  they  were  glad  to 
see  him  go. 

"  Mus'  Sumption  wur  more  blacksmith  nor  he  wur 
minister,"  they  said  when  any  local  enthusiasm  for  him 
prevailed ;  and  it  was  true  that  in  his  loneliness  and 
anxiety  he  would  often  find  comfort  in  the  forge  at  Sun- 
day Street,  where  he  could  sit  and  watch  Bourner  the 
smith  swing  his  hammer,  or  even  sometimes  himself,  with 
coat  thrown  off  and  shirt-sleeves  rolled  back  over  arms 
long  and  hairy  as  a  gorilla's,  smite  the  hot  iron  or  scrape 
the  patient  hoof,  while  his  face  grew  red  as  copper  in  the 
firelight  and  the  sweat  ran  over  it  and  his  shaggy  chest. 


TOM  23 

To-night,  when  Jerry  had  wounded  him  afresh,  he 
turned  to  his  unfailing  refuge.  His  pain  was  not  the 
mere  dread  of  death  or  maiming  of  the  lad — it  was  some- 
thing more  sinister,  more  intangible.  "  The  army  is  not 
for  the  gipsy  woman's  son."  He  feared  for  Jerry  in  that 
organised  system  of  rank  and  order  and  command.  He 
would  have  preferred  him  in  the  workshop  even  if  the 
relative  danger  of  the  two  places  had  been  reversed. 
Jerry  was  less  likely  to  be  smashed  by  a  German  shell 
than  by  the  system  in  which  he  had  enrolled  himself. 
He  would  break  his  head  against  its  discipline,  hang  him- 
self in  its  rules.  .  .  .  His  dread  for  Jerry  under  martial 
law  was  the  dread  his  Meridian's  ancestors  would  have 
felt  for  her  under  a  roof.  It  was  a  fear  based  more  on 
instinct  than  on  reason,  therefore  all  the  more  bruising 
to  the  instinctive  passion  of  fatherhood.  It  was  well 
that  he  had  this  refuge  of  iron  and  anvil,  of  hammer  and 
hoof,  this  small  comforting  similitude  of  the  day  which 
should  burn  as  an  oven.  .  .  .  Bourner  the  smith  did  not 
talk  to  him  much.  He  made  a  few  technical  remarks, 
and  winked  at*  his  mate  when  Mr.  Sumption  boasted  of 
Jerry's  valour  in  joining  the  army.  But  gradually  the 
tired,  careworn  look  on  the  minister's  face  died  away, 
his  eyes  ceased  to  smoulder  and  roll ;  in  the  thick  stuffy 
atmosphere,  strong  with  the  smell  of  hoofs  and  the  am- 
moniacal  smell  of  hide  and  horses,  grey  with  smoke  and 
noisy  with  the  roar  of  flames  and  the  ring  of  iron,  he  was 
going  back  in  peace  to  his  father's  house,  to  the  smithy 
at  the  throws  by  Bethersden,  before  the  burdens  of  divine 
and  human  love  had  come  down  upon  him. 


After  his  companion  had  left  him,  Tom  Beatup  walked 
quickly  down  the  lane,  past  the  Horselunges  and  the  Rifle 


24  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Volunteer,  to  where  Worge  gate  hung  crooked  across 
Worge  drive,  paintless  and  smeared  with  dew.  Here  he 
stopped  a  minute,  and  looked  at  the  huddle  of  the  farm. 
It  was  one  black  shape  against  the  yellow  of  the  sky,  and 
the  cones  of  its  oasts  and  the  spires  of  its  poplars  seemed 
part  of  its  block,  so  that  it  looked  grotesque  and  horned. 
He  hesitated,  rubbed  his  hand  along  the  top  of  the  gate 
and  licked  the  dew  off  his  fingers,  then  turned  and  walked 
eastward. 

Beyond  Egypt  Farm  and  the  cottages  of  Worge,  just 
before  the  willow  pond  that  marked  the  end  of  the  street, 
stood  the  shop,  where  Thyrza  Honey  was  "  licensed  to 
sell  tobacco."  It  was  in  darkness  now,  except  for  a  faint 
creep  of  light  under  the  door.  Had  Thyrza  "  shut  up  "  ? 
No — the  handle  turned,  the  little  bell  gave  its  buzzing 
ring,  and  the  warm  light  ran  out  for  a  moment  into  the 
darkling  lane — with  a  smell  of  tea  and  tobacco,  sweets 
and  sawdust,  scrubbed  floor  and  rotting  beams,  the  smell 
that  was  to  Tom  the  same  refuge  as  the  smell  of  the  forge 
was  to  Mr.  Sumption. 

The  shop  was  empty,  but  he  could  see  a  shadow  mov- 
ing to  and  fro  across  the  little  window  at  the  back — a 
ridiculous  little  window,  about  a  foot  square,  yet  as  gay 
with  its  lace  curtains  and  pink  ribbons  as  the  drawing- 
room  bow  of  a  Brighton  lodging-house.  The  next  minute 
a  face  was  pressed  against  it,  then  withdrawn,  and  the 
door  at  the  back  of  the  shop  opened. 

"  Good  evenun,  Mus'  Tom." 

"  Good  evenun,  Mrs.  Honey." 

She  moved  slowly  to  her  place  behind  the  counter.  All 
her  movements  were  slow,  which  women  sometimes  found 
irritating,  but  never  men,  who  were  always  either  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  aware  of  a  kind  of  drawling 
beauty  in  her  gait.  She  was  fair,  with  hair  like  fluffy, 
sun-bleached  grass.  Her  skin  was  like  that  of  an  apricot, 


TOM  25 

soft  and  thick,  of  a  deep  creamy  yellow,  with  soft  dabs 
of  colour  on  her  wide  cheek-bones. 

"  A  packet  of  woodbines,  please,"  said  Tom. 

She  reached  them  from  the  shelf  behind  her. 

"  Have  you  got  any  bull's-eyes  ?  " 

"  Yes — three-ha'pence  an  ounce." 

"  They've  got  dearer." 

"  And  they'll  get  dearer  still,  I  reckon." 

*'  Give  me  three  penn'orth,  please." 

She  took  them  out  of  a  glass  bottle  at  her  elbow. 

"  Got  any  monster  telephones  ?  " 

"  I  dunno — I'm  afeard  we're  sold  out." 

Thyrza  always  spoke  of  herself  in  a  business  capacity 
as  "  we." 

"  Could  you  maake  up  two  penn'orth  ?  Harry  and 
Zacky  are  unaccountable  fond  of  them." 

"  You're  a  kind  brother — buying  sweeties  for  all 
the  family.  I  reckon  the  bull's-eyes  are  fur  your 
sisters." 

"  Reckon  they  are.  No  use  giving  monster  telephones 
to  girls — they  can't  be  eaten  dentical." 

This  was  obvious  when  Thyrza  finally  unearthed  the 
telephones  in  an  old  case  under  the  ginger-beer  box. 
They  were  long,  black  coiling  strings  of  liquorice,  re- 
quiring sleight  of  hand,  combined  with  a  certain  amount 
of  unfastidiotisness,  for  their  consumption.  Tom  was 
disappointed  that  Thyrza  had  found  them  so  soon.  He 
stood  by  the  counter,  fingering  his  purchases  and  wishing 
his  money  was  not  all  gone. 

"  I  hear  you've  bin  up  at  the  Tribunal,"  said  Thyrza, 
coming  to  the  rescue. 

"  Yes— they  woan't  let  me  off." 

"  You're  sorry,  I  reckon." 

"Unaccountable.  I  doan't  know  wot  ull  become  of 
the  farm." 


26  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Thyrza  sighed  sympathetically,  having  nothing  to  say 
in  the  way  of  comfort. 

"  They  said  as  how  I  wurn't  really  indispensable, 
faather  being  able-bodied  and  having  two  lads  besides 
me,  and  two  '  hands  '  " — he  laughed  bitterly.  "  I'd  like  to 
show  'em  the  '  hands  ' — two  scarecrows,  you  might  say." 

"  It's  a  sad  world,"  remarked  Thyrza  comfortably. 

Mrs.  Honey  was  a  widow,  but  never  had  more  than  a 
sentimental  sigh  for  her  husband  who  had  made  her 
miserable,  and  then  suddenly  rather  proud — on  that  last 
day  of  October  when  the  Royal  Sussex  had  held  the  road 
to  Sussex  against  the  fury  of  the  Prussian  Guard,  and 
Sam  Honey  died  to  save  the  home  he  had  made  so  un- 
happy while  he  lived.  He  had  died  bravely  and  she  was 
proud  of  him,  but  he  had  lived  meanly  and  she  could  not 
regret  him. 

"Wot  sort  of  a  soldier  d'you  think  I'll  make,  Mrs. 
Honey?" 

"  A  good  one,  surelye  " — and  she  showed  him  teeth 
like  curd. 

"  I'm  naun  so  sure,  though.  I'm  a  farmer  bred,  and 
the  life  ull  be  middling  strange  to  me." 

"  Maybe  you'll  lik  it.  Sam  liked  it  fine.  There  was 
no  end  o'  fun  to  be  had,  he  said,  and  f oakes  all  giving  you 
chocolate  and  woodbines,  just  as  if  you  wur  the  king." 

"  Will  you  send  me  a  postcard  now  and  agaun,  Mrs. 
Honey?" 

"  Reckon  I  will." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two  in  the  shop. 
The  oil  lamp  swung,  moving  the  shadows  over  the  ceil- 
ing where  the  beams  sagged  with  the  weight  of  Thyrza's 
little  bedroom.  A  clock  in  the  back  room  ticked  loudly. 
Tom  was  still  leaning  across  the  counter,  looking  at 
Thyrza.  They  both  felt  rather  awkward,  as  they  often 
felt  in  each  other's  company.  Thyrza  wondered  when 


TOM  27 

Tom  was  going.  She  liked  him — liked  him  unaccount- 
able— but  her  bit  of  supper  was  on  the  fire  in  the  next 
room,  there  was  some  mending  to  be  done,  and  many 
other  odds  and  ends  of  feminine  business  before  it  was 
time  to  set  the  mouse-traps,  put  the  milk- jug  on  the 
doorstep,  and  go  to  bed.  Besides,  she  knew  he  ought  to 
be  going  back  to  Worge  to  tell  his  family  the  news  which 
should  have  been  theirs  before  he  brought  it  to  her. 

"  I  reckon  your  mother  ull  be  wondering  how  you've 
fared  this  afternoon.  Has  your  father  gone  home  and 
told  her?" 

"I  left  faather  at  Woods  Corner." 

"  She'll  be  worriting  about  him  too,  then." 

"  Maybe  I  should  ought  to  go  home  and  tell  them." 

He  straightened  himself  with  a  sigh.  He  must  leave 
his  refuge  of  tea  and  soap  and  candles,  the  peace  of 
Thyrza  Honey's  slow  movements  and  thick,  sweet  voice. 
She  was  sorry  for  him. 

"You'll  look  in  again,  Mus'  Tom?" 

"  Surelye." 

"  Maybe  you'll  bring  your  sister  Ivy  round  for  a  cup 
of  tea  before  you  go.  Ull  you  be  going  soon  ?  " 

"  In  a  fortnight.  .  .  .  Good  evenun,  Mrs.  Honey." 

"  Good  evenun,  Mus'  Tom." 

Again  the  bell  gave  its  buzzing  ring,  as  he  opened  the 
door  and  went  out. 


Tom's  heart  had  sunk  rather  low  before  he  came  to 
Worge.  He  was  always  dissatisfied  with  himself  after 
seeing  Thryza.  He  never  seemed  able  to  find  anything 
to  say,  just  because  she  was  the  person  he  liked  most  in 
the  world  to  talk  to.  He  felt  that  he  must  be  very 


28  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

different  from  the  other  men  who  came  to  see  her — for 
men  liked  Thyrza — who  could  make  even  the  buying  of 
a  penn'orth  of  sweets  an  occasion  for  artful  sally  and 
interesting  conversation.  That  reminded  him  that  he 
had  left  all  his  purchases  on  the  counter.  What  an  un- 
accountable fool  he  was!  However,  he  would  not  go 
back  for  them.  They  must  wait  till  to-morrow.  Still, 
he  wished  he  hadn't  left  them,  Thyrza  would  think  him 
silly,  and  besides  he  had  wanted  to  give  those  sweets  to 
his  brothers  and  sisters.  He  nearly  always  brought 
them  something  when  he  went  into  the  town. 

They  were  all  at  supper  in  the  kitchen — he  could  hear 
their  voices.  He  wondered  if  his  father  had  come  back 
yet.  He  had  not,  for  the  first  question  that  greeted  his 
entrance  was : 

"  Whur's  your  f aather,  Tom  ?  " 

"  I  left  him  at  Woods  Corner.  I'd  have  thought  he'd 
bin  home  by  now." 

"  Then  you  thought  silly.  'T'aun't  likely  as  he'll  come 
home  till  they  close.  You  should  have  stopped  along 
of  un." 

"  I  thought  I'd  better  git  back  home  and  tell  you  the 
news." 

"  And  wot's  that?    Have  they  let  you  off  ?  " 

"  Not  they.    A  fortnight's  final." 

Mrs.  Beatup  began  to  cry.  She  was  a  large,  stout 
woman  with  masses  of  rough  grey  hair,  and  a  broad, 
rather  childish  face,  which  now  looked  more  like  a  child's 
than  ever  as  it  wrinkled  up  for  crying. 

"  Now,  mother,  doan't  you  taake  on,"  said  Ivy,  the 
eldest  girl,  getting  up  and  putting  her  arm  round  her. 

"  It's  a  shaame,  a  hemmed  shaame,"  sobbed  the 
woman.  "  No  woander  as  faather's  stopped  at  Woods 
Corner.  To  take  our  eldest  boy  as  is  the  prop  and  stay 
of  the  whole  of  us !  " 


TOM  29 

"  He  aun't  no  such  thing,"  said  Ivy,  who  was  a  strap- 
ping girl — rather  like  her  mother,  except  that  her  round 
face  ended  in  a  sharp  chin,  which  gave  her  an  unex- 
pected air  of  shrewdness.  The  second  girl,  Nell,  was 
helping  her  brother  to  his  supper  of  pork  and  cabbage. 

"  No  one  can  say  he's  indispensable,"  she  remarked 
in  rather  a  pretty,  half-educated  voice — she  was  pupil 
teacher  in  her  second  year  at  the  school  in  Brownbread 
Street.  "  There's  Harry  just  on  sixteen,  and  there's 
Juglery  and  Elphick,  and  no  one  can  say  father  isn't  a 
strong  man  and  able  to  look  after  the  farm." 

"  Your  faather's  no  use.  Tom,  did  you  tell  them  as 
your  faather  had  bad  habits  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Tom  sulkily,  shovelling  in  the 
cabbage  with  his  knife. 

"  Then  you  wur  a  fool.  You  know  as  your  faather 
aun't  himself  three  nights  out  of  five,  and  yet  you  go 
and  say  naun  about  it.  How  are  they  to  know  if  you 
doan't  tell  them  ?  " 

"  I  wurn't  going  to  tell  all  the  big  folk  round  Senlac  as 
my  faather  drinks." 

"  Hush,  Tom !  I  never  said  as  you  wur  to  say  that — 
but  you  might  have  let  'em  know,  careful  like,  as  he 
aun't  always  able  to  look  after  the  farm  as  well  as  you 
might  think." 

"  It  ud  have  done  no  good.  Drunkenness  aun't  a  reason 
for  exemption,  as  they  say.  Besides,  I'd  middling  little 
to  do  in  the  matter.  Faather  was  applying  fur  me,  and 
he  did  all  the  talking — an  unaccountable  lot  of  it,  too.  I 
wurn't  took  because  there  wurn't  enough  said  against 
it,  I  promise  you.  But  seemingly  before  a  farm  chap 
like  me  gits  off,  he's  got  to  have  a  certifickit  from  the 
War  Agricultural  Committee,  and  they  read  a  letter  say- 
ing as  they'd  recommended  one  to  be  given,  but  the 
Executive  Committee  or  summat  hadn't  fallen  in  wud 


30  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

it.    So  there's  no  use  crying,  mother,  for  go  I  must,  and 
it'll  be  none  the  easier  for  you  making  all  this  vrother." 

He  was  cross  because  he  was  unhappy. 

"  Will  you  be  in  the  Royal  Sussex,  Tom — along  of 
Mus'  Dixon  and  Mus'  Archie  ?  "  asked  Zacky,  the  young- 
est boy. 

"  I  dunno." 

"  When  ull  you  be  leaving  ?  " 

"  In  a  fortnight,  I've  told  you." 

"  I  hear  as  how  Bill  Putland  ull  be  going  soon,"  said 
Mrs.  Beatup.  "  He'd  be  company  like  fur  you,  Tom." 

"  Bill ! — he's  too  unaccountable  fine  and  grand  fur  me. 
He  thinks  no  end  of  himself  being  Mus'  Lamb's  chuvver. 
But  I'll  tell  you  who's  joined  the  Sussex,  though,  and 
that's  Jerry  Sumption.  I  met  Mus'  Sumption,  this 
evenun,  and  he  toald  me." 

"  You  doan't  mean  to  say  as  Jerry's  left  the  fackory?  " 

"  Yes.  He  went  and  enlisted — minister  says  he's  un- 
accountable proud  of  him." 

There  was  a  crackle  of  laughter  round  the  table. 

"  Well,  we  all  of  us  know,  and  I  reckon  minister  knows 
as  we  know,  that  if  Jerry  had  bin  any  sort  of  use  at  the 
munititions  they  wouldn't  have  let  him  join  up.  It's  a 
law  that  if  you  maake  munititions  you  doan't  have  to 
join  up." 

"  Oh,  Jerry's  bin  never  no  good  at  naun.  He's  jest  a 
roving  gipsy  dog." 

Mrs.  Beatup  turned  suddenly  to  Ivy : 

"  Did  you  know  aught  of  this  ?  " 

"  Not  I !  "  said  Ivy  carelessly.  "  Jerry  hasn't  written 
to  me  fur  more'n  a  month.  Maybe  this  is  why." 

"  I'm  justabout  sorry  fur  Mus'  Sumption,"  said  Tom, 
whom  his  supper  had  put  in  better  humour.  "  He 
has  a  feeling  as  Jerry  ull  come  to  no  good  in  the 
army." 


TOM  31 

"  No  more  he  will,  nor  nowhere,  I'm  thinking,"  said 
Mrs.  Beatup.  "  Doan't  you  never  have  naun  to  do  wud 
him,  Tom.  I  doan't  want  my  children  to  git  the  splash 
of  that  gipsy  muck "  And  she  threw  another  half- 
defiant,  half-furtive  look  at  Ivy. 

"Where's  Harry?"  asked  Tom. 

"  Out  ratting,"  Zacky  informed  him. 

"  Well,  he  woan't  find  any  supper's  bin  kept  fur  him, 
that's  all,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup,  rising  and  pushing  back 
her  chair.  "  Nell,  put  the  plaates  on  the  tray  and  maake 
yourself  useful  fur  wunst." 

A  flush  crept  over  Nell's  pale,  pretty  face,  from  her 
neck  to  the  roots  of  her  reddish  hair.  She  gingerly 
picked  up  two  of  the  smelly,  greasy  plates,  then  quickly 
put  them  down  again. 

"  There's  faather." 

"Where?"  Mrs.  Beatup  listened. 

"  I  heard  the  gate — and  there  goes  the  side  door." 

The  next  minute  a  heavy,  uncertain  footstep  was 
heard  in  the  passage,  then  a  bump  as  if  someone  had 
lurched  into  the  wall.  The  family  stood  stock-still  and 
waited. 

"  Maybe  he'll  hurt  himself  in  the  dark,"  said  Mrs. 
Beatup,  "  now  policeman  woan't  let  us  have  the  light  at 
the  passage  bend." 

"  No,  he's  all  right.  There  he  is  scrabbling  at  the 
door." 

There  was  the  sound  of  fingers  groping  and  scratching. 
Then  the  door  opened  and  the  farmer  of  Worge  came  in, 
his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  a  lock  of  hair  falling  over  his 
red  forehead,  and  the  whole  of  his  waistcoat  undone. 
He  stood,  supporting  himself  against  the  doorpost,  and 
glared  at  the  family. 

"  Your  supper's  still  hot,  Ned,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup 
hesitatingly — "  leastways,  the  gals  have  eaten  all  the 


32  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

taters,  but  I  can  hot  you  up  .  .  . "  She  began  to  whimper 
as  the  bleared  grey  eyes  slowly  rolled  towards  her. 

"  Be  quiet.  Mother,"  said  Ivy. 

Mus'  Beatup,  slowly  and  carefully,  made  his  way 
towards  a  broken-springed  arm-chair  beside  the  fire.  He 
then  sat  down  by  the  simple  process  of  falling  into  it 
backwards ;  then  he  stretched  out  a  foot  that  seemed 
made  of  clay  and  manure 

"  Taake  off  my  boots,  Missus." 


It  was  quite  dark  before  Tom  was  able  to  slip  out  to 
see  to  one  or  two  odd  jobs  that  wanted  doing  in  the 
barns.  He  felt  himself  obliged  to  stay  in  the  kitchen 
while  his  father  was  there,  for  though  there  had  not  been 
more  than  a  few  occasions  when  surliness  had  blazed 
into  assault,  he  knew  that  it  was  always  just  possible 
that  his  father  might  become  violent,  especially  as  his 
mother  always  went  the  worst  way — with  tears,  re- 
proaches, arguments  and  lamentations.  What  would 
happen  when  he  was  no  longer  at  hand  to  watch  over  her 
he  did  not  like  to  think.  It  was  all  part  of  the  load  of 
anxiety  and  love  which  was  settling  down  on  him. 

If  he  had  been  a  free  man  he  would  probably  have 
felt  quite  ready  for  the  change  ahead  of  him.  Though 
his  imagination  had  scarcely  taken  hold  of  the  war,  and 
though  the  harrow  and  the  plough,  with  the  thick  suck- 
ing earth  on  his  boots,  and  the  drip  of  rain  or  stew  of 
sunshine  on  waiting  fields,  had  absorbed  most  of  the 
boyish  spirit  of  adventure  which  might  have  sent  him 
questing  out  of  stuffier  circumstances — though  his  was 
the  country  heart,  which  is  the  last  heart  for  warfare — 
in  spite  of  all,  he  might  have  gone  gaily  to  the  new  life, 
with  its  wider  reach  and  freedom,  if  he  had  not  known 


TOM  33 

that  his  departure  meant  the  crumbling  of  that  little 
corner  of  England  which  was  his,  which  his  arm  had 
built  and  his  back  supported. 

He  knew  that  Worge  leaned  on  him,  for  he  felt  the 
weight  of  it  even  in  his  dreams.  It  was  four  years  now 
since  he  had  put  his  shoulder  against  it;  he  was  only 
just  twenty,  but  he  knew  that  if  four  years  ago  he  had 
not  made  up  his  mind  to  save  the  farm,  his  father  would 
have  drunk,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  muddled,  the 
place  into  the  auction  market,  and  the  Beatups  would 
now  be  scattered  into  towns  or  soaking  their  humble-pie 
in  beer  on  smallholdings.  He  had  done  nothing  very 
wonderful.  The  place  was  small  and  no  more  wanted  a 
giant  to  hold  it  up  than  a  giant  to  knock  it  down.  He 
had  merely  worked  while  others  slacked,  thought  while 
others  slept,  remembered  while  others  forgot.  But,  with- 
out any  thrill  of  pride  or  adventure,  he  knew  that  he  had 
tided  Worge  through  its  bad  hour,  and  that  the  same 
little  upheld  it  now.  He  was  the  real  farmer,  though  he 
had  to  be  careful  not  to  let  his  headship  be  seen.  His 
father  had  not  explained  things  clearly  to  the  tribunal 
— explaining  things  clearly  was  not  a  quality  of  Tom's 
either — he  had  been  far  too  anxious  to  preserve  his  own 
importance,  which  might  have  suffered  had  be  said,  "  My 
son  runs  the  farm  while  I'm  drinking  at  the  pub." 

The  others  were  not  even  as  much  good  as  his  father. 
In  the  intervals  of  drinking,  which  in  spite  of  Mrs. 
Beatup's  three-in-five  calculation  were  often  quite  re- 
spectable, he  was  both  hard-working  and  resourceful, 
though  of  late  his  brain  had  grown  spongier  and  threat- 
ened a  final  rot.  But  the  rest  of  the  family  had  no  up- 
standing moments.  Ivy  was  strong  and  comparatively 
willing,  but  Tom  did  not  believe  in  girls  as  farm-hands 
and  never  thought  of  Ivy  even  milking  the  cows.  She 
and  her  mother  looked  after  the  chickens  and  did  the 


34  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

housework,  that  was  all.  Nell  was  out  all  day  and  busy 
working  in  the  evenings  for  her  examination ;  Zacky  was 
still  at  school,  and  Harry  was  a  rover — the  comrade  of 
other  farmers'  younger  sons  in  ratting  and  sparrow- 
hunting,  in  visiting  fairs,  in  trespassing  for  birds'  eggs, 
or  sometimes  solitary  in  strange  obedience  to  the  call  of 
distant  wood  or  village  green.  Yet  Harry  was  Tom's  one 
hope — a  last,  forlorn  one. 

Tom  was  waiting  for  him  now.  He  wanted  to  speak 
to  his  young  brother  alone,  not  in  the  dim  lath-smelling 
bedroom  where  Zacky  would  be  a  third.  Harry  did  not 
generally  stop  out  late,  though  he  had  occasionally 
roamed  all  night — hunger  and  fear  of  a  beating  (another 
of  Tom's  quasi-paternal  tasks)  usually  brought  him  home 
just  in  time  to  satisfy  one  and  escape  the  other. 

Tom  looked  into  the  cowshed — one  of  the  cows  had 
shown  ailing  signs  that  day,  but  she  seemed  well  enough 
now,  with  her  large  head  lolling  against  the  stall,  her 
eyes  soft  and  untroubled  in  the  brown  glow  of  his  lantern. 
He  would  not  see  the  calf  which  had  caused  him  so  much 
half -proud  anxiety ;  he  wondered  what  would  become 
of  them  both  if  it  should  be  born  on  one  of  Father's 
"  bad  nights."  Then  he  went  into  the  stable,  where  the 
three  farm-horses — the  sorrel,  the  brown,  and  the  bay 
— stood  stamping  and  chumbling,  with  the  cold  miasmic 
air  like  a  mist  above  the  straw.  Then  he  went  back  into 
the  yard — saw  that  the  henhouse  door  was  fast,  that  old 
Nimrod  the  watch-dog  had  his  bone  and  his  water  and  a 
good  length  of  chain.  It  was  very  cold,  there  was  a  faint 
smell  of  rime  on  the  motionless  air,  and  the  stars  were 
like  spluttering  candles  in  the  frost-black  sky.  These 
April  days  and  nights  were  unaccountable  tricky,  he  told 
himself.  That  noon  the  very  heart  of  the  manure-heap 
had  melted  in  the  sun,  and  now  it  was  hardening  again 
— his  boot  hardly  sank  into  the  stuff  as  he  trod  it  with 


TOM  35 

his  heel.  Some  of  it  ought  to  be  carted  to-morrow  and 
put  round  the  apple-trees.  .  .  . 

Harry  was  very  late.  He  would  go  into  the  corn- 
chamber  and  do  some  accounts.  He  was  clumsy  with  his 
figures,  and  they  kept  him  there  twisting  and  scratching 
his  head  till  nearly  ten  o'clock,  when  he  heard  a  footfall, 
would-be  stealthy,  on  the  stones. 

He  rose  quickly  and  ran  round  the  yard  to  the  back- 
door just  as  a  shadow  melted  up  against  it. 

"  Here — you !  "  cried  Tom  surlily,  for  he  was  tired  and 
muddled  with  his  sums — "  doan't  you  think  to  go  slither- 
ing in  quiet  lik  that,  you  good-fur-naun." 

"  I'll  come  in  when  I  like,"  grumbled  Harry.  "  You 
aun't  maaster  here." 

"  Well,  I'm  the  bigger  chap,  anyways,  so  mind  your 
manners.  Where've  you  bin  ?  " 

"  Only  down  to  Puddledock." 

"  Puddledock  aun't  sich  a  valiant  plaace  as  you  shud 
spend  half  a  day  there.  You've  bin  up  to  no  good,  I 
reckon.  A  fine  chap  you'll  be  to  mind  Worge  when  I'm 
gone." 

"  You're  going,  then  ?  " 

Harry's  voice  was  anxious,  for  he  was  fond  of  Tom, 
though  he  resented  his  interference  with  his  liberties. 

"  Yes — I'm  going  .  .  .  join  up  in  a  fortnight.  Come 
in,  Harry;  I  want  to  spik  to  you." 

"  I  want  my  supper." 

"  You'll  have  your  supper,  though  you  doan't  desarve 
it,  you  spannelling  beggar.  I'll  come  and  sit  along  of 
you  ;  we  must  talk  business,  you  and  I." 

"  About  Worge  ? " 

"  Yes." 

They  were  in  the  kitchen  now,  dark  except  for  some 
gleeds  of  fire.  The  rest  of  the  family  had  gone  to  bed, 
but  the  broken  supper  was  still  on  the  table — the  hacked, 


36  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

hardening  loaf,  and  the  remains  of  the  bacon  and  cab- 
bage under  floating  scabs  of  grease.  Tom  lit  the  lamp 
and  Harry  sat  down,  hungry  and  uncritical.  The  two 
boys  were  curiously  alike,  short  and  sturdy,  with  broad 
sunburnt  faces,  grey  eyes,  big  mouths,  and  small,  defiant 
noses.  Harry's  coat  was  covered  with  clay  all  down  one 
side,  and  the  sleeve  was  torn — Tom  was  too  heavy- 
hearted  for  more  scolding,  just  noted  drearily  a  new  item 
of  expenditure.  The  younger  brother  saw  the  elder's 
cast-down  looks : 

"  I'm  unaccountable  sorry,  Tom,"  he  said  sheepishly. 

"  Cos  of  wot?  Cos  I'm  going  or  cos  you  aun't  worth 
your  bed  and  keep  ?  " 

"  Cos  of  both." 

"  Well,  there's  naun  to  do  about  one,  but  a  sight  to  do 
about  t'other.  Harry,  you'll  have  to  mind  Worge  when 
I'm  agone." 

"Wot  can  I  do?" 

"  You  can  work  instead  of  roaming,  and  you  can  see 
to  things  when  faather's  bad — see  as  there  aun't  naun 
foolish  done  or  jobs  disremembered.  Elphick  and  Jug- 
lery  have  only  half  a  head  between  them.  Before  I  go 
I'll  tell  you  all  I've  had  in  my  head  about  the  hay  in 
Bucksteep  field,  and  the  oats  agaunst  the  Street  and 
them  fuggles  down  by  the  Sunk.  And  you'll  have  to 
kip  it  all  in  your  head  saum  as  I've  kipped  it  in  mine, 
and  see  as  things  come  out  straight  by  harvest.  D'you 
understand  ?  " 

"Yes,  Tom." 

"  And  there's  Maudie's  calf  due  next  month,  and  a 
brood  of  them  Orpingtons,  and  I'd  meant  to  buy  a  boar 
at  Lewes  Fair  and  kip  him  for  service.  You'll  never 
have  the  sense  to  do  it.  You  mun  stop  your  ratting  and 
your  roving,  or  Worge  ull  be  at  the  auctioneer's. 
Faather's  a  valiant  clever  chap  when  he's  sober,  and 


TOM  37 

book-larned  too,  but  the  men  are  two  old  turnup-heads, 
and  Zacky's  scarce  more'n  a  child,  and  the  gals  are  gals 
— so  it's  up  to  you,  Harry,  as  they  say,  to  kip  the  plaace 
going." 

Harry  groaned 

"  Why  wudn't  they  let  you  stay  ?  " 

"  Because  they  didn't  see  no  sense  in  kipping  an  A 
man  on  farm-work  when  there  wur  plenty  about  to  do 
his  job.  They  doan't  understand  how  things  are,  and 
when  you  coame  to  think  of  it,  it's  a  shaum  as  I  can't 
go  wud  a  free  heart." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.  I  aun't  got  the  chance  of  knowing,  wud 
all  this  vrothering  me.  But  I'd  go  easier  if  I  cud  think 
the  plaace  wouldn't  fall  to  pieces  as  soon  as  I  left  it,  and 
that  if  I'm  killed  ..." 

He  stopped.  Strangely  enough,  he  had  never  thought 
of  being  killed  till  now. 


Tom's  calling-up  papers  did  not  arrive  till  a  few  days 
later.  It  was  a  showery  morning,  with  a  flooding  blue 
sky,  smeethed  and  streaked  with  low  floats  of  cloud. 
The  rain  was  cracking  on  the  little  green  panes  of  the 
kitchen  window,  and  the  spatter  of  the  drops,  with  the 
soft  humming  song  of  the  kitchen  fire,  was  in  Tom's 
ears  as  he  studied  the  sheet  which  entitled  one  horse, 
one  bicycle,  one  mule,  one  (asterisked)  private  soldier 
to  travel  cost-free  to  Lewes.  He  opened  his  mouth  to 
say,  "  My  calling-up  papers  have  come,"  but  said  noth- 
ing, just  sat  with  his  mouth  open.  The  shower  rattled 
and  the  fire  hummed,  then  a  sudden  spill  of  sunshine 
came  from  the  dripping  edge  of  a  cloud  into  the  room, 
making  the  drops  on  the  pane  like  golden  beads,  and  light- 


38  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

ing  up  the  breakfast  table,  so  that  the  mangled  loaf  and 
the  dirty  cups  became  almost  as  wonderful  as  the  shining 
faces  round  them. 

Mus'  Beatup  was  himself  this  morning — they  still 
called  it  "  himself,"  though  of  late  his  real  self  had 
seemed  more  and  more  removed  from  the  lusty  head- 
acheless  man  who  sat  among  them  to-day,  more  and 
more  closely  coiled  with  that  abject  thing  of  sickness 
and  violence  which  came  lurching  down  the  fields  at 
dusk  from  the  Rifle  Volunteer.  He  was  studying  his 
share  of  the  post — an  invitation  to  an  auction  at  Rush- 
lake  Green,  where  Galleybird  Farm  was  up  for  sale  with 
all  its  live  and  dead  stock.  Mrs.  Beatup  had  never  had 
a  letter  in  her  life,  nor  apparently  wanted  one.  She 
always  exclaimed  at  the  post,  and  wondered  why  Ivy 
should  have  all  those  postcards.  In  her  young  days  no 
one  sent  postcards  to  girls.  If  a  chap  wanted  you  for 
wife  he  hung  around  the  gate,  if  he  did  not  want  you 
for  wife  he  took  no  manner  of  notice  of  you.  A  dozen 
chaps  could  not  want  Ivy  for  wife — her  with  as  many 
freckles  as  a  foxglove,  and  all  blowsy  too,  and  sunburnt 
as  a  stack — and  yet  there  were  nearly  a  dozen  postcards 
strewn  round  her  plate  this  morning.  Some  were  field 
postcards,  whizzbangs,  from  Sussex  chaps  in  France, 
some  were  stamped  with  the  red  triangle  of  the  Y.M.C.A., 
some  were  views  of  furrin  Midland  places  where  Sussex 
chaps  were  in  training,  and  some  were  funny  ones  that 
made  Ivy  throw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and  show  her 
big,  white,  friendly  teeth,  and  laugh  "  Ha !  ha !  "  till  the 
others  said,  "  Let's  see,  Ivy,"  and  the  picture  of  the 
Soldier  come  home  on  leave  to  find  twins,  or  the  donkey 
chewing  the  Highlander's  kilt,  or  the  Kaiser  hiding  in  a 
barrel  from  " Ach  Gott!  die  Royal  Sussex!"  would  be 
passed  round  the  table.  To-day  one  of  the  pictures  of 
the  gentleman  with  twins — it  was  a  popular  one  in  the 


TOM  39 

Sussex,  and  Ivy  had  two  this  morning — was  from  Jerry 
Sumption. 

"  Says  he's  fed  up,"  said  Ivy.  "  He  reckons  I  knew 
about  his  joining.  How  was  I  to  know  ?  He's  at  Water- 
heel  Camp ;  and  he's  met  Sid  Viner  and  young  Kadwell. 
They  kip  those  boys  far  enough  from  home." 

"  And  a  good  thing  too,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  We 
doan't  want  Minister's  gipsy  spannelling  round." 

"  Spik  for  yourself,  mother — there  aun't  a  lad  at 
Waterheel  as  I  wuldn't  have  here  if  I  cud  git  him." 

"  You'll  come  to  no  good,"  grumbled  her  father,  and 
pretty  Nell,  with  her  anaemic  flush,  shrugged  away  from 
her  sister's  sprawling  elbow.  She  herself  had  had  only 
one  postcard,  which  she  slipped  hastily  into  the  front  of 
her  blouse — unlike  Ivy,  who  left  hers  scattered  over  the 
table  even  when  the  family  had  risen  from  their  meal. 
There  was  not  much  in  the  postcard  to  justify  such 
preferential  treatment,  for  it  ran — "  There  will  be  a 
meeting  of  the  Sunday-school  teachers  to-morrow  in 
church  at  5.30.  H.  Poullett-Smith." 

Nell  began  to  collect  her  books  for  school.  She  care- 
fully dusted  the  crumbs  from  her  skirt,  smoothed  her 
pretty  marigold  hair  before  the  bit  of  mirror  by  the  fire- 
place, put  on  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  was  gone.  The 
rest  of  the  family  began  to  disperse.  Zacky  had  to  go  to 
school  too,  but  his  going  was  an  unwilling,  complicated 
matter  compared  with  Nell's.  His  mother  had  to  find 
his  cap,  his  sister  to  mend  his  bootlace,  his  father  to  cuff 
his  head,  and  finally  his  brother  Tom  to  set  him  march- 
ing with  a  kick  in  his  rear. 

Ivy  tied  on  a  sacking  apron  and  began  to  slop  soap- 
suds on  the  floor  of  the  outer  kitchen,  Mrs.  Beatup  set 
out  on  a  quest — which  experience  told  would  last  the 
morning — after  a  plate  of  potatoes  she  could  have  sworn 
she  had  set  in  the  larder  overnight.  Mus'  Beatup  went  off 


40  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

to  his  fields  with  Harry  at  his  tail,  and  calling  to  Tom — 

"  Have  you  bin  over  to  Egypt  about  them  roots?  " 

"  No — I'm  going  this  mornun." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  Putland  as  it's  taake  or  leave — he 
pays  my  price  or  he  doan't  have  my  wurzels." 

"  Yes,  Father." 

Tom  went  off  very  quietly,  fingering  the  summons  in 
his  pocket.  How  many  times  now  would  he  go  on  these 
errands  to  Egypt,  Cowlease,  Slivericks  and  other  farms? 
His  father  would  have  to  go,  or  if  unfit,  then  Harry 
would  be  sent — Harry  who  would  sell  you  a  cart  of 
swedes  for  tuppence  or  exchange  a  prize  pig  for  a  ferret. 
That  was  an  unaccountable  queer  little  bit  of  paper  in 
his  pocket.  He  could  tear  it  in  two,  but  it  could  also 
do  the  same  for  him,  and  in  any  conflict  it  must  come 
out  winner.  It  was,  as  it  were,  a  finger  of  that  in- 
visible hand  which  was  being  thrust  down  through  the 
clouds  to  grab  Tom  and  other  little  people.  The  huge, 
unseen,  unlimited,  unmerciful  force  of  a  kingdom's 
power  lay  behind  it,  and  Tom's  single  body  and  soul 
must  obey  without  hope  of  escape  the  great  Manhood 
that  demanded  them  both,  as  a  potter  demands  clay 
and  scoops  up  the  helpless  earth  to  bake  in  his  oven.  .  .  . 

All  this  in  a  more  or  less  rag-and-tag  state  was  passing 
through  his  mind  as  he  walked  down  the  drive  of  Worge, 
with  speedwell  a-bloom  between  the  ruts,  and  came  to 
the  Inn  whose  painted  sign  was  a  volunteer  of  Queen 
Victoria's  day.  It  was  an  old  house,  with  a  huge  wind- 
ward sprawl  of  roof,  but  had  not  been  licensed  more  than 
sixty  years.  Tom  disliked  it  as  a  temptation  which 
Providence  had  tactlessly  dumped  at  their  door.  If 
Mus'  Beatup  had  had  to  walk  to  the  Crown  at  Woods 
Corner  or  the  George  at  Brownbread  Street  he  would 
have  been  more  continuously  the  smart,  upstanding  man 
he  was  this  morning. 


TOM  41 

Egypt  Farm  was  just  across  the  road.  It  was  smaller 
than  Worge,  but  also  brighter  and  more  prosperous- 
looking.  There  was  new  white  paint  round  the  windows 
and  on  the  cowls  of  the  oasts,  and  the  little  patch  of 
garden  by  the  door  was  trim,  with  hyacinths  a-blowing 
and  early  roses  spotting  the  trellis  with  their  first  buds. 

"  Mornun,  Tom,"  called  Mrs.  Putland  cheerily.  She 
was  putting  a  suet  pudding  into  the  oven,  with  the 
kitchen  door  wide  open,  and  saw  him  as  he  crossed  the 
yard. 

"  Mornun,  ma'am.    Is  the  maaster  at  home?  " 

"  Maaster's  over  at  Satanstown  buying  a  calf.  Can 
I  give  him  your  message  ?  " 

"  Faather  says  as  it's  taake  it  or  leave  it  about  them 
roots." 

"  Then  I  reckon  he'll  taake  it.  He  never  wur  the  man 
to  higgle-haggle,  and  the  roots  is  good  roots." 

"  Justabout  valiant — I  never  got  a  tidier  crop  out  of 
Fodder's  field." 

Mrs.  Putland  had  come  to  the  door  and  stood  looking 
at  him,  with  her  arms  akimbo.  She  was  a  small,  trim 
woman,  buttoned  and  sleeked,  and  somehow  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  was  the  same  as  the  expression  of  the 
house — the  clean,  kindly,  enquiring  look  of  Egypt  with 
its  white-framed  staring  windows  and  smooth,  ruddy 
tiles. 

"  It'll  be  unaccountable  sad  fur  your  faather  to  lose 
you.  You've  bin  the  prop-stick  of  Worge  this  five  year." 

"  Can't  be  helped.  I've  got  to  go.  Had  my  calling-up 
paapers  this  mornun." 

"  That's  queer.  So  did  Bill.  Reckon  you'll  go  to- 
gether." 

"  Didn't  Bill  try  fur  exemption,  then  ?  " 

"  No — Mus'  Lamb  wouldn't  have  it.  Besides,  there 
wurn't  no  reason  as  he  should  stay.  We've  done  wud- 


42  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

out  him  here  since  he  went  to  the  Manor,  and  Mus'  Lamb 
ull  kip  his  plaace  fur  him  till  he  comes  back." 

Tom  envied  Bill  his  free  heart. 

"  I'll  give  him  a  call,"  continued  Bill's  mother.  "  He 
aun't  due  up  at  the  Manor  fur  an  hour  yit,  and  he  wur 
saying  only  last  night  as  he  never  sees  you  now." 

A  few  minutes  later  Bill  answered  his  mother's  call, 
and  sauntered  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  his  chauffeur's  cap  a  little  on  one  side. 
He  had  a  handsome,  fresh-coloured  face,  strangely  cheeky 
for  a  country  boy's,  and  Tom  always  felt  rather  ill  at 
ease  in  his  presence,  a  little  awed  by  the  fact  that  though 
his  hands  might  sometimes  be  brown  and  greasy  with 
motor-oil,  his  body  was  of  a  well-washed  whiteness  un- 
known at  Worge. 

"  Hullo,  Bill." 

"  Hullo,  Tom." 

There  had  never  been  a  very  deep  friendship  between 
them ;  Bill  was  inclined  to  be  patronising,  and  Tom  both 
to  resent  it  and  to  envy  him.  But  to-day  a  new,  mys- 
terious bond  was  linking  them.  In  the  pocket  of  Bill's 
neat  livery  there  was  a  paper  exactly  like  that  in  Tom's 
manure-slopped  corduroys. 

"  I  hear  you've  bin  called  up,  Bill." 

"  Yes — in  a  fortnight,  they  say." 

"  I'm  going  too — in  a  fortnight." 

"Pleased?" 

"  No.  I'm  unaccountable  vrothered  at  leaving  the 
farm.  Wot  d'you  feel  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  me? — I'm  not  sorry.  They'll  keep  my  place  open 
for  me  at  the  Manor,  and  I  shall  like  getting  a  hit  at 
Kayser  Bill.  Besides,  the  gals  think  twice  as  much  of 
you  if  you're  in  uniform." 

This  was  a  new  complexion  on  the  case,  and  Tom's 
thoughts  wandered  down  to  the  shop. 


TOM  43 

"  I  shall  like  being  along  of  Mus'  Archie,  too — he  told 
me  I  could  be  along  of  him.  We're  all  eighteenth  Sussex 
hereabouts.  I  reckon  you'll  be  in  with  us." 

"  I  dunno." 

Tom's  brow*  were  crinkled,  for  he  was  thinking  hard. 
He  was  chewing  the  fact  that  for  a  free  man  there  might 
be  something  rather  pleasant  in  soldiering.  This  happy, 
conceited,  self-confident  little  chauffeur  was  teaching  him 
that  the  soldier's  lot  was  not  entirely  dark.  "  Called  up  " 
— "  taken  " — "  fetched  along  " — those  were  the  words  of 
his  conscript's  vocabulary.  But  now  for  the  first  time  he 
saw  something  beyond  them,  a  voluntary  endeavour  be- 
yond the  conscript's  obedience,  a  corporate  enthusiasm 
beyond  his  lonely  unwillingness.  "  We're  all  eighteenth 
Sussex  hereabouts.  .  . " 


8 

April  was  May  before  Tom's  weeks  of  grace  had  run. 
The  field  hollows  were  white  with  drifts  of  hawthorn, 
and  the  pale  purplish  haze  of  the  cuckoo-flower  had  given 
place  to  the  buttercups'  dabble  of  gold.  The  papery- 
white  of  the  wild  cherry  had  gone  from  the  woods,  which 
were  green  now,  thick,  and  full  of  the  nutty  smell  of 
leaves.  The  ditches  were  milky  with  fennel,  and  on  the 
high  meadows  by  Thunders  Hill  the  broom  and  the  gorse 
clumped  their  yellows  together,  making  the  hill  a  flaming 
cone  to  those  who  saw  it  from  the  marshes  of  Horse  Eye. 

The  farmers  of  Dallington  watched  their  hayfields 
rust.  There  was  little  corn  in  that  country  bounded  by 
the  Four  Roads,  so  as  the  sun  climbed  higher  noon  by 
noon,  the  neighbourhood  grew  gipsy-brown — the  straw- 
coloured  feathers  of  the  grass  veiled  a  glowing  heart  of 
clover,  and  above  them  opened  the  white  ox-eyes  and 
pools  of  sorrel.  .  .  . 


44  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Tom  Beatup  watched  ripen  the  fields  whose  harvest 
he  would  not  see.  There  were  some  twenty  acres  of  hay 
at  Worge,  and  two  fields  in  which  the  green  corn  was  his 
hope  and  dread.  The  crop  was  promising  on  the  whole 
— a  bit  sedge-leaved  perhaps,  but  firm  in  its  seed.  There 
were  the  hops,  too,  in  the  low  fields  by  Puddledock,  where 
Forges  Wood  shut  off  the  north-east  wind.  He  trundled 
the  insect-sprayer  round  the  bines,  and  afterwards  loved 
the  smell  of  his  green,  sticky  hands. 

He  would  have  been  rightly  offended  if  anyone  had 
told  him  that  his  chief  pangs  of  parting  were  for  the 
farm.  None  the  less,  there  was  a  lingering  wistfulness  in 
his  last  dealings  with  it  which  was  not  in  his  intercourse 
with  his  family.  He  loved  his  mother,  he  admired  his 
father,  he  felt  for  his  brothers  and  sisters  an  elder 
brother's  half-anxious,  half -contemptuous  fondness ;  but 
in  his  last  services  for  Worge,  whether  in  field  or  barn, 
there  was  something  almost  sacramental.  His  duties  were 
rites — he  was  the  unconscious  priest  of  that  tumble-down 
altar  before  which  the  manure  smoked  as  incense  and  on 
which  the  burnt-offering  of  his  boyhood  lay. 

He  had,  too,  a  hunger  for  the  fields,  not  only  the  fields 
of  Worge,  but  for  all  those  within  the  Four  Roads — 
which  he  did  not  see  as  roads  leading  to  adventure,  but 
as  boundaries  fencing  home.  When  his  tasks  allowed 
he  would  roam  in  the  webbing  of  tracks  that  the  farms 
have  spun  between  the  lanes — he  would  go  to  Starnash 
or  Oxbottom  Town,  watch  the  lightless  sky  grow  purple 
over  Muddles  Green,  and  the  big  stars  begin  to  spark  it 
as  the  moon  hung  like  a  red  lamp  above  Mystole  Wood. 
High  on  the  zenith  the  sky  would  be  rainy  green,  and  he 
would  watch  it  deepen  to  purple  round  the  crimson  moon, 
all  unconscious  of  its  beauty,  loving  it  only  because  it 
hung  above  this  clay  in  which  his  feet  were  stuck,  be- 


TOM  45 

cause   from  it  came  the   brightness   which  waked   the 
homely  things  he  had  put  in  the  earth  to  sleep.  .   .   . 

Sometimes  he  would  be  disturbed  by  another  quest, 
and  would  beat  slowly  up  and  down  on  the  road  outside 
the  shop,  longing  to  go  in  and  yet  strangely  reluctant. 
He  felt  all  tied-up  and  dumb.  He  could  not  tell  Thyrza 
Honey  what  he  felt  at  leaving  her  any  more  than  he 
could  have  told  Starnash  or  Thunders  Hill — than  he 
could  have  told  the  little  brother  who  lay  against  him 
on  cold  nights — or  the  dreamy-eyed  cows  he  milked — or 
even  the  grinning,  whining  watch-dog  who  muddied  him 
with  his  love.  He  was  dumb,  as  all  these  were  dumb. 
He  felt  unaccountable  vrothered  at  having  to  leave  them 
all,  and  that  was  the  utmost  he  could  say;  and  yet  he 
knew  that  in  Thyrza's  case,  at  any  rate,  it  was  not 
enough.  A  man  with  a  better  tongue  than  he  would 
have  gone  into  that  shop,  and  shut  himself  into  the  light 
and  tea-smelling  warmth,  instead  of  pacing  up  and  down 
under  the  cold  stars. 


On  the  last  day  of  all  he  plucked  up  courage.  He 
could  not  go  without  saying  good-bye,  and  he  had  always 
brought  her  the  big  things  of  his  life — from  his  buying 
of  a  horse-rake  to  the  news  of  the  Tribunal's  decision — 
though  each  time  he  had  wrapped  his  need  in  some  penny 
purchase  of  tobacco  or  sweets. 

The  little  bell  buzzed  and  ting'd.  The  shop  was  empty 
and  rather  dark,  for  a  grey  starless  dusk  was  on  the 
fields  after  a  rainy  day.  The  wind  rattled  the  door  he 
had  shut  behind  him,  and  moaned  round  the  little  leaded 
window  banked  up  with  penny  toys  and  tins  of  fruit. 
It  had  a  long  sighing  sweep  over  the  fields  from  Bird-in- 


46  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Eye,  and  just  across  the  road  was  a  willow  pond,  from 
which  it  seemed  to  drink  sadness.  Over  the  banks  of 
papered  tins  and  paint-slopped  toys  he  could  see  the  grey 
bending  backs  of  the  willows,  and  the  steely  ruffle  of  the 
pond  under  the  wind.  His  throat  grew  tight  with  a  word 
that  was  stuck  in  it — "  Good-bye." 

The  door  of  the  back  room  opened,  and  there  was  a 
leap  of  firelight  and  the  song  of  a  kettle  before  it  shut. 

"  Evenun,  Mus'  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Honey. 

"  Evenun,"  said  Tom.    "  A  packet  of  Player's,  please." 

Thyrza  put  it  on  the  counter.    "  Any  sweeties  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I'll  taake  a  quarter  of  bull's-eyes  and  four- 
penn'orth  of  telephones.  I  woan't  leave  them  behind  me 
this  time  " — and  Tom  grinned  sheepishly. 

"  Your  brothers  and  sisters  ull  miss  you,"  said  Thyrza, 
poking  with  a  knife  at  the  sticky  wedge  of  the  bull's-eyes. 

"  Not  more'n  I'll  miss  them  and  the  whole  plaace." 

"  I  reckon  it's  sad  to  say  good-bye." 

"  Unaccountable  sad." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  very  tenderly.  She  was 
sorry  for  Tom  Beatup — had  always  been  a  little  sorry 
for  him — she  could  not  quite  tell  why. 

"  It'll  be  a  long  time  before  I  see  you  again,  Thyrza." 

"  Maybe  not — you  may  git  leave  and  come  to  see  us." 

He  shook  his  head "  Not  yet  awhile." 

His  parcels  lay  before  him,  but  she  did  not  expect  him 
to  go.  He  was  leaning  across  the  counter,  staring  at  her 
with  big,  solemn  eyes,  and  she  knew  that  she  liked  his 
face,  broad  and  ruddy  as  a  September  moon,  that  she 
like  the  whole  sturdy  set  of  him. 

"  Stay  and  have  a  bit  of  supper  wud  me,  Tom."  It 
was  quite  unconsciously  that  they  had  become  Tom  and 
Thyrza  to  each  other. 

The  colour  burned  into  his  cheeks,  but  he  shook  his 
head. 


TOM  47 

"  No,  thank  you  kindly.  I've  got  to  git  back 
hoame.  I've  a  dunnamany  things  to  do  this  last 
evenun." 

"  Then  come  on  your  fust  leave." 

"  Reckon  I  will Oh,  Thryza !  " 

His  hunger  had  outrun  his  shyness.  He  was  trem- 
bling. She  had  lifted  her  hand  to  smooth  back  the  soft 
fuzz  of  her  hair,  which  in  the  dusk  had  become  the 
colour  of  hay  in  starlight,  and  as  she  dropped  her  hand, 
he  caught  it,  and  held  it,  then  kissed  it.  It  was  warm 
and  wide  and  soft  and  rather  sticky. 

"  Oh,  Tommy " 

"  D'you  mind,  Thyrza?  " 

"  I  ?— Lord,  no,  dear." 

He  was  still  holding  her  hand  across  the  counter,  and 
now  he  slowly  pulled  her  towards  him.  Her  darling  face 
was  coming  closer  to  him  out  of  the  shadows;  he  could 
smell  her  hair.  .  .  . 

Buzz — Ting. 

Their  hands  dropped  and  they  started  upright,  both 
looking  utterly  foolish.  The  Reverend  Henry  Poullett- 
Smith  sniffed  an  air  of  constraint  as  he  entered. 

"  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Honey.  I  came  to  leave  this — 
er — notice  about  the  Empire  Day  performance  at  the 
schools.  Perhaps  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  show  it  in  the 
window,  and — er — come  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I'll  put  it  here  by  the  tinned  salmon. 
That's  what  gets  looked  at  most." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Honey.  Hullo,  Beatup — I  didn't 
see  you  in  this  dim  light." 

"  I'll  be  gitting  the  lamp,"  said  Thyrza. 

Tom  swept  his  parcels  off  the  counter  into  his  pockets, 
and  muttered  something  about  "  hoame." 

"  This  is  your  last  day,  isn't  it?  "  asked  the  curate. 

"  Yessir.    Off  to-morrow." 


48  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"Sorry?" 

"  Middling  sorry,  for  some  reasons." 

"  But  it  will  be  a  big  experience  for  you." 

The  curate  was  young,  and  sometimes  vaguely 
hankered  after  that  adventure  in  which  no  priests  but 
those  of  godless  France  might  share.  It  was  hard  to 
see  it  being  wasted  on  a  pudding-headed  chap  like 
Beatup. 

Tom  only  grunted  his  reply  to  this  challenge.  He  was 
angry  with  the  parson  for  having  come  into  the  shop, 
discreet  as  had  been  his  entry.  He  did  not  think  of 
waiting  till  he  had  gone,  for  somehow  no  one,  especially 
a  man,  ever  left  Thyrza's  shop  in  a  hurry,  as  if  the 
tranquil  dawdle  of  the  shopkeeper  communicated  itself 
to  her  customers,  making  them  lounge  and  linger  long 
after  their  purchases  were  made. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Honey." 

"  Good-bye,  Tom." 

"  Good-bye,  and  good  luck,"  said  the  curate,  shaking 
hands. 

The  bell  buzzed  again,  and  Tom  was  out  in  the  throb 
and  shudder  of  the  wind,  while  Thyrza  lit  the  lamp  in 
the  house  behind  him. 


10 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  all  the  family  at 
supper,  except  Harry,  who  after  a  fortnight's  doubtful 
virtue  had,  on  his  brother's  last  night  at  home,  escapaded 
off  with  two  young  Sindens  from  Little  Worge.  Mrs. 
Beatup  was  inclined  to  be  tearful  about  it.  "  Wot  we'll 
do  when  you're  agone,  Tom,  Lord  only  knows."  Of  late 
she  had  taken  to  treating  Tom's  departure  as  a  volun- 
tary, not  to  say  capricious,  act,  and  her  frequent  lamen- 
tations were  gabbled  with  reproach,  vague  hints  that  if 


TOM  49 

he  had  liked  he  could  have  prevented  the  catastrophe 
— precisely  how,  she  never  told  him. 

Mus'  Beatup  was  not  drunk.  Only  a  negative  state- 
ment could  describe  him,  for  neither  was  he  sober.  An 
alcoholic  Laodicean,  neither  hot  nor  cold,  he  lolled  over 
the  head  of  the  table,  and  argued  with  Nell,  the  pupil- 
teacher,  on  the  utter  futility  of  the  Church  of  England, 
or,  indeed,  any  sort  of  Church.  It  was  characteristic  of 
Nell  that  she  would  argue  with  her  father,  drunk  or 
sober.  She  had  championed  her  causes  against  a  far 
less  responsible  adversary  than  she  had  before  her  to- 
day. Her  cheeks  were  pink  with  refutation,  and  her  little 
sighs  and  exclamations  and  chipped  beginnings  of  phrases 
popped  like  corks  round  Mus'  Beatup's  droning  eloquence 
— that  eloquence  which  so  filled  Tom  with  admiration 
and  made  him  boast  of  his  father's  book-learning  among 
the  farms. 

"  It's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face,  and  has  all  bin 
proved  over  and  over  again  as  there  wuren't  no  such 
persons  as  Adam  and  Eve.  There's  a  chap  called  Dar- 
win 's  proved  as  we're  the  offsprings  of  monkeys,  and  a 
chap  called  Bradlaugh  's  proved  as  we  all  come  out  of 
stuff  called  prottoplasm — so  where  are  your  Adam  and 
Eve,  I'd  lik  to  know?" 

"But,  father,  as  if  it  mattered.    The  Church  ..." 

"  The  Church  is  there  to  prove  as  the  world  was  maade 
in  six  days,  when  it's  bin  proved  over  and  over  again 
as  it  hasn't." 

"  The  Church  is  there  for  no  such  thing — it's " 

"  I  tell  you  it's  bin  proved  as  it's  there  for  that  very 
purpose." 

"Who's  proved  it?" 

"  Darwin  and  Huxley  and  Bradlaugh,  and  a  lot  more 
clever  chaps." 

"  But  they  lived  years  ago,  and  it's " 


50  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Not  so  many  years  ago  as  your  Adam  and  Eve,  and 
yet  you  go  and  believe  in  them.  ..." 

"  I  don't.    Not  in  the  sense.  ..." 

"  When  it's  bin  proved  as  there  never  wur  no  Adam 
and  Eve.  The  fust  people  wur  monkeys,  descended  from 
prottoplasm,  and  then  caum  the  missing  lynx  and  then 
caum  us.  I  tell  you  it's  all  bin  proved  over  and  over 
again,  and  parson  chaps  and  silly  gals  aun't  likely  to 
prove  anything  different." 

Tom  listened  respectfully,  if  rather  grudgingly,  to  this 
learned  conversation.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  his  father 
about  one  or  two  matters  concerning  the  farm,  but  knew 
there  would  be  no  chance  for  him  to-night.  He  kept  up 
at  intervals  a  grunting  intercourse  with  his  mother,  who 
wanted  every  other  minute  to  know  where  he'd  been  and 
where  Harry  had  got  to,  and  what  in  the  Lord's  name 
they  were  to  do  without  him.  Into  the  bargain,  he  ate 
a  hearty  supper,  for  though  he  was  in  love  and  rather 
miserable,  he  was  also  a  healthy  young  animal,  sharp-set 
after  a  day  in  the  open  air. 

At  last  the  theological  argument  ended,  not  because  it 
was  any  nearer  solution  or  had  indeed  moved  at  all 
from  its  first  premises,  but  because  the  end  of  supper 
dispersed  the  combatants,  Nell  to  her  work,  and  Mus* 
Beatup,  ignominiously,  to  the  kitchen  sink.  Having  re- 
lieved his  stomach  of  its  load  of  bad  beer  and  half- 
masticated  food,  he  went  grumbling  upstairs  to  bed, 
wondering  what  we  were  all  coming  to  nowadays,  and 
why  nobody  stopped  the  war. 

Mrs.  Beatup  reckoned,  with  a  sigh,  that  she  had  better 
go  to  bed  too,  as  Maaster  didn't  like  it  if  she  disturbed 
him  later.  So  she  lit  her  candle,  and  went  slowly  creak- 
ing upstairs,  leaving  Ivy  to  clear  away  the  supper. 
Just  where  the  stairs  bent,  she  suddenly  stood  still,  as 
if  a  thought  had  struck  her. 


TOM  51 

"  Tom,"  she  called. 

He  was  cleaning  his  boots  in  the  outer  kitchen,  but 
when  he  heard  her  he  ran  up  to  where  she  stood,  thick 
against  her  monstrous  shadow  in  the  angle  of  the  stairs. 

"  It's  queer  as  you  never  think  of  kissing  your 
mother." 

He  had  not  kissed  her  for  weeks,  but  now,  suddenly 
troubled,  he  did  so. 

"  I'm  sorry,  mother." 

"  And  so  you  may  be — on  your  last  night,  too." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  sheepishly. 

"  Well,  git  down  to  your  business.  I  mustn't  linger, 
or  Maaster  ull  be  gitting  into  bed  in  his  boots." 

He  went  downstairs,  feeling  suddenly  smartingly  sorry 
for  his  mother  as  she  waddled  upwards  to  this  drunkard's 
bed.  He  saw  that  her  lot  was  a  hard  one. 


II 

The  passage  was  in  darkness,  and  Tom  did  not  see,  but 
felt,  the  side  door  swing  open,  with  a  damp  drench  of 
wind  from  the  yard.  There  was  a  grey  mist  in  the 
passage.  The  next  minute  a  white  stick-like  thing  flew 
out  of  it,  suddenly  like  the  wind,  .and  then  bumped  into 
Tom,  with  the  unexpected  contact  of  warm  flesh  against 
his  hands,  and  "  Oo-er,"  in  Harry's  voice. 

"Harry  ..." 

"  Oh,  that's  you,  Tom?  Lemme  git  up  and  fetch  some 
cloathes." 

"  But  where's  those  as  you  went  out  in  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.  I'll  tell  you  afterwards,  but  I'm  coald,  and 
I  want  my  supper." 

The  slow,  facile  anger  of  his  type  went  tingling  into 
Tom's  speech  and  hands. 

"  Supper !    I'm  hemmed  if  you  git  so  much  as  a  bite. 


52  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Tell  me  this  wunst  where  you  left  your  cloathes  or  I'll 
knock  your  head  off,  surelye." 

He  laid  violent  hands  on  Harry,  who  was,  however, 
far  too  slippery  to  hold.  He  was  free  in  a  minute  and 
dashed  into  the  outer  kitchen,  slamming  the  door  after 
him. 

When  Tom  came  in  he  was  sitting  tailor-fashion  on 
the  table,  gnawing  the  top  of  a  cottage  loaf.  The  elder 
brother  could  not  help  laughing  at  him,  he  looked  such 
a  queer  goblin  creature. 

"  Doan't  be  vrothered,  Tom,"  whined  Harry,  taking 
advantage  of  his  relenting — "  it's  your  last  night  at 
home." 

Tom  winced — they  were  always  throwing  it  at  him, 
his  "  last  night." 

"  Lucky  fur  you  as  it  is — and  unlucky  fur  me — and 
unlucky  fur  Worge  if  this  is  the  way  you're  going  on 
when  I'm  a-gone.  Where 've  you  bin?  " 

"  Only  over  to  Bucksteep,  Tom." 

"  But  wot  have  you  done  wud  your  clothes?  " 

"  Mus'  Archie's  got  'em." 

"  Wot  d'you  mean?    Spik  the  truth." 

"It's  Bible  truth.  Willie  and  Peter  Sinden  and  Bob 
Pix  and  me  thought  as  how  we'd  bathe  by  moonlight  in 
Bucksteep  pond,  and  Mus'  Archie's  hoame  on  leave,  and 
he  wur  walking  wud  his  young  woman  in  the  paddock, 
and  he  sawed  us,  and  took  all  our  cloathes  whiles  we  wur 
in  the  water.  He  thought  as  how  he'd  got  us  then,  and 
that  we  couldn't  git  away  wudout  our  cloathes.  But 
he's  found  he's  wrong,  fur  we  climbed  up  the  far  bank 
into  Throws  Wood,  and  ran  hoame." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  as  you've  come  in  your  skin  all 
the  way  from  Bucksteep  ?  " 

Harry  nodded,  and  laughed  at  some  Puckish  memory. 

"  Well,  all  I  wonder  is  as  you  wurn't  took  and  put  in 


TOM  53 

gaol — you  would  have  been  if  policeman  had  met  you — 
and  you'll  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

He  pulled  off  his  coat  and  most  ungently  bundled 
Harry  into  it.  Then  another  idea  struck  him.  He 
groaned,  and  scratched  his  head. 

"  I  must  write  to  Mus'  Archie  this  wunst." 

"Why,  Tom?" 

"  To  git  your  clothes  back.  We  can't  afford  to  lose  a 
good  suit  of  clothes." 

He  turned  wearily  to  the  cupboard,  and  took  out  a 
penny  ink-bottle,  a  pen,  and  some  cheap  writing-paper. 

"  Tom — he'll  know  it  wur  me  if  you  write." 

"  I  can't  help  that — we  must  git  your  clothes  back." 

"  But  they  were  only  old  cloathes." 

"  Adone-do,  Harry.  We  can't  afford  to  lose  so  much 
as  an  old  shirt.  Oh,  you're  vrothering  me  to  madness 
wud  your  doings. " 

He  began  to  scrawl  in  his  slow,  round  hand.  He  was 
no  letter-writer,  and  found  it  difficult  to  put  his  request 
into  words.  He  also  wanted  to  plead  for  Harry,  to 
explain  a  little  of  his  own  hard  case,  and  ask  that  the 
matter  might  be  allowed  to  stop  at  the  scare  and  scolding 
Harry  had  received,  for  "  I  am  joining  up  to-morrow, 
and  it  is  very  hard  to  leave  them  all  like  this,  from  your 
obedient  servant  Thomas  Beatup." 

Harry  watched  him,  bobbing  over  the  sheet,  every 
now  and  then  passing  his  tongue  over  his  lips  in  the 
agony  of  composition.  Then  suddenly  he  slid  towards 
him  across  the  table  and  put  his  arm  round  his  neck. 

Tom  shook  him  off. 

"  Git  away." 

"  I'm  sorry  I'm  such  a  hemmed  curse  to  you,  Tom." 

"  You're  a  hemmed  curse  indeed.  I  ask  you  to  be  a 
man  in  my  plaace,  and  you're  no  more  than  a  tedious 
liddle  child." 


54  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

A  sudden  sense  of  the  hopelessness  of  it  all  came  over 
him — the  net  in  which  he  struggled,  in  which  he  was 
being  dragged  away  from  those  he  could  help  and  love. 
He  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands.  Harry  stood  for  a 
moment  awestruck  beside  him,  a  grotesque  figure  with 
Tom's  coat  hanging  over  his  bare  thighs.  Then  he 
turned  and  crept  away  to  bed. 

The  clock  struck  nine,  and  Tom  lifted  his  head.  He 
was  utterly  weary,  but  he  knew  that  if  he  did  not  take 
his  letter  over  to  Bucksteep  to-night  he  would  not  have 
time  in  the  morning.  There  was  no  good  leaving  it  to 
other  hands  to  deliver,  for  he  felt  that  his  mother  would 
resent  its  humble  tone,  and  perhaps  send  instead  an  angry 
demand  which,  by  rousing  Mus'  Archie's  rage,  might  end 
by  landing  Harry  before  the  Senlac  Bench.  So  he  put  on 
his  father's  driving  coat,  which  hung  in  the  passage  and 
smelt  of  manure  and  stale  spirits,  and  let  himself  out  into 
the  soft,  throbbing  darkness,  lit  only  by  a  few  dim  stars 
of  the  Plough. 


12 

Bucksteep  Manor  was  the  smaller  kind  of  country- 
house,  smuggled  away  from  the  cross-roads  in  a  larch 
plantation,  with  a  tennis  lawn  at  the  back,  and  a  more 
open  view  swinging  over  a  copsed  valley  to  Rushlake 
Green.  It  had  once  been  a  farmhouse,  but  a  wing  had 
been  added  in  modern  style,  and  inside,  the  low  raftering 
had  been  swept  away,  so  that  when  Tom  stood  in  the 
dimly-lighted  hall,  which  had  once  been  the  kitchen,  he 
could  look  up  to  a  ceiling  dizzily  high  to  his  sag-roofed 
experience. 

The  Lambs  were  the  aristocracy  of  Dallington,  a 
neighbourhood  strikingly  empty  of  "  society "  in  the 
country-house  sense.  They  had  themselves  been  yeo- 


TOM  55 

man  farmers  a  couple  of  generations  back,  and  the  pres- 
ent squire  still  interested  himself  shamefacedly  in  Buck- 
steep's  hundred  acres.  The  Beatups  had  but  little  truck 
with  the  Manor ;  precarious  yeomen,  no  rents  or  dues 
demanded  intercourse,  and  Mus'  Beatup  had  often  been 
heard  to  say  that  some  folks  were  no  better  than  other 
folks,  for  all  their  airs  and  acres. 

Tom  had  given  his  letter  to  a  rustling  parlourmaid, 
and  stood  meekly  waiting  for  an  answer,  his  large  bovine 
eyes  blinking  with  sleepiness.  From  an  adjoining  room 
came  the  throaty  music  of  a  gramophone,  playing: 

"  When  we  wind  up  the  Watch  on  the  Rhine 
Everything  will  be  Potsdam  fine  ..." 

There  was  girls'  laughter,  too — probably  Miss  Marian 
Lamb  and  Mus'  Archie's  intended — and  every  now  and 
then  he  heard  Mrs.  Lamb's  voice  go  rocketing  up.  He 
did  not  feel  envious  of  all  this  jollity,  neither  did  it  grate 
upon  him ;  he  just  stood  and  waited  under  the  shaded 
lamps  of  the  hall,  and  had  nearly  fallen  asleep  on  his 
legs  when  suddenly  the  door  opened,  with  a  flood  of 
light  and  noise,  and  shut  again  behind  Mus'  Archie. 

"  Good  evening,  Beatup.  Sorry  to  have  kept  you  wait- 
ing. I  couldn't  make  this  out  at  first — had  no  idea  your 
young  brother  was  one  of  the  culprits  to-night,  or  I 
shouldn't  have  played  that  trick  on  'em." 

"  It  doan't  matter,  sir.  Harry  desarved  it.  It's  only 
as  we  can't  afford  to  lose  the  clothes." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not.  Come  with  me  and  pick  his 
out  of  the  pile,  and  you  can  take  them  home." 

"  Thank  you,  Mus'  Archie." 

He  followed  young  Lamb  into  a  little  gun-room  open- 
ing on  the  hall,  and  was  able  to  pick  out  Harry's  rather 
bobtail  toilet  from  a  muddle  of  Sinden  and  Fix  raiment. 

"  That's  all,  is  it  ?    Wan't  anything  to  wrap  'em  in  ?  " 


56  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  No,  sir,  it  aun't  worth  it.  Thank  you  kindly  for 
letting  me  have  the  things." 

"  There  was  never  any  question  of  you  not  having 
them.  I've  no  right  to  keep  'em.  So  you're  joining 
up  to-morrow  ?  " 

He  was  in  uniform,  but  without  his  belt.  Somehow  to 
Tom  he  seemed  a  burlier,  browner  man  than  the  young 
squire  whom  before  the  war  he  used  to  see  out  hunting, 
or  shooting,  or  driving  girls  in  his  car. 

"  Yes,  I'm  joining  up,  as  they  say." 

"  You  don't  seem  over-pleased  about  it." 

"  I  aun't,  particular." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  it's  the  grandest  job  on 
earth,  and  that  all  the  chaps  out  there  are  having  the 
time  of  their  lives.  It  wouldn't  be  true,  though  I  expect 
the  Tribunal  told  you  so." 

"  Yessir ;  they  said  as  if  they  were  only  ten  years 
younger  they'd  all  be  in  it." 

"  Of  course  they  did.  Well,  I've  been  out  there,  and 
I've  seen  .  .  .  But  never  mind ;  you'll  find  that  out  for 
yourself,  Beatup.  However,  I'll  say  this  much — it  isn't 
a  nice  job,  or  a  grand  job,  or  even  a  good  job ;  but  it's  a 
job  that's  got  to  be  done,  and  when  it's  done  we'll  like 
to  think  that  Sussex  chaps  helped  do  it." 

Tom's  heart  warmed  a  little  towards  Mus'  Archie. 
He  was  making  him  feel  as  he  had  felt  when  Bill  Putland 
said,  "  We're  all  eighteenth  Sussex  hereabouts." 

"  It  aun't  the  going  as  un  vrother  me,  if  it  wurn't  fur 
leaving  Worge.  I'm  fretted  as  the  plaace  ull  land  at  the 
auctioneer's  if  I'm  long  away.  You  see,  I've  always  done 
most  of  the  work,  in  my  head  as  well  as  wud  my  hands. 
Faather,  he  aun't  a  healthy  man,  and  the  others  aun't 
much  help  nuther.  There's  only  Harry  lik  to  be  any  use, 
and  he's  such  an  unaccountable  limb  of  wickedness — 
for  ever  at  his  tricks — to-night's  only  one  cf  them." 


TOM  57 

"  Perhaps  he'll  pull  himself  together  and  work  for 
Worge  when  he  sees  you've  gone  to  fight  for  it." 

This  was  new  light  on  the  matter  for  Tom.  Hitherto 
he  had  always  thought  of  himself  as  deserting  Worge  in 
its  hour  of  need — it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  his 
going  was  the  going  of  a  champion,  not  of  a  traitor. 

"  Maybe  it's  as  you  say,  Mus'  Archie.  Leastways, 
we'll  hope  so." 

They  were  in  the  hall  again  now,  and  the  gramophone 
was  singing  in  its  spooky  voice.  "  You  called  me  Baby 
Doll  a  year  ago."  Tom  slowly  turned  the  handle  of  the 
front  door,  sidling  out  on  to  the  step. 

"  Thank  you  for  the  clothes,  Mus'  Archie.  I'll  try  and 
talk  some  sense  into  Harry  before  I  go." 

"  Good  night,  Beatup,  and  good  luck  to  you.  I  ex- 
pect I'll  see  some  more  of  you  in  the  near  future.  All 
the  chaps  round  here  seem  to  be  drafted  into  the  eight- 
eenth. Bill  Putland  will  be  in  our  little  crowd,  and 
Jerry  Sumption — there'll  be  quite  a  Dallington  set  at 
Waterheel." 

"  I  hope  I'll  be  with  you,  Mus'  Archie." 

"  I  hope  you  will,  Beatup.    Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  sir." 

The  door  shut,  and  he  was  out  in  the  drive,  where  the 
larches  swung  against  the  moon. 

Archie  Lamb  went  back  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
put  a  new  record  on  the  gramophone. 

"  Queer  chap,  Beatup,"  he  said  to  his  mother.  "  I  don't 
know  how  he'll  shape.  He  looks  strong  and  steady,  but 
I  should  say  about  as  smart  as  a  mangold-wurzel." 


13 

Tom  swung  along  the  dim  road,  where  the  shadows 
ran  before  him.     The  new-risen  moon  looked  over  the 


58  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

hedge,  an  amber  disc  just  past  the  full,  swimming  against 
the  wind  from  Satanstown.  In  the  heart  of  the  wind 
seemed  still  to  beat  the  pulse  of  those  far-off  guns,  the 
ghost  of  their  day-long  thunder.  Over  and  over  in  his 
mind  Tom  turned  his  new  thought — that  he  was  going  to 
fight  for  Worge. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  come  to  Sunday  Street. 
He  could  see  the  moonlight  lying  like  frost  on  the  south- 
ward slope  of  the  roofs,  and  the  windows  of  the  Bethel 
were  ghostly  with  it,  as  they  stared  away  to  the  marshes. 
The  Bethel  alone  seemed  awake  in  the  little  huddle  of 
sleeping  cottages — it  had  a  strange  look  of  watchfulness 
and  waiting,  its  gaunt  Georgian  windows  never  had  that 
comfortable  blinking  air  of  the  cottage  lattices  .  .  . 
Tom  did  not  like  the  Bethel  at  night. 

He  looked  across  the  road  to  the  Horselunges,  where 
Mr.  Sumption  lived.  A  crack  of  light  showed  under  the 
blind  of  the  minister's  room,  and  Tom's  heart  gave  a 
little  thump  of  self-reproach,  for  he  had  not  till  then 
thought  of  saying  good-bye  to  him.  He  had  not  seen 
much  of  Mr.  Sumption  lately,  and  had  been  too  much 
absorbed  in  his  own  concerns  to  think  of  him,  but  now 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  call  and  say  good-bye ;  it  was 
past  ten  o'clock  and  he  was  very  tired  and  sleepy,  never- 
theless he  walked  up  to  the  door  of  the  Horselunges  and 
knocked. 

Mrs.  Hubble  was  in  bed,  as  the  hour  demanded,  so  the 
door  was  opened  by  her  lodger. 

"Hello,  Tom.  Anything  the  matter?  Do  they  want 
me  at  Worge  ?  " 

Mr.  Sumption  was  always  childishly  eager  for  some 
demand  on  his  pastoral  ministrations,  a  demand  which 
was  seldom  made,  as  he  had  a  disruptive  bedside  manner 
and  the  funds  of  his  chapel  did  not  admit  of  the  doles 


TOM  59 

which  made  sick  Dallington  people  endure  the  consola- 
tions of  the  Church. 

"  No,  thank  you,  they  doan't.  I've  just  come  to  say 
good-bye." 

The  minister's  forehead  clouded — 

"Oh,  you've  remembered  me  at  last,  have  you? 
Thought  it  just  as  well  not  to  forget  old  friends  before 
you  go  off  to  make  new  ones.  Come  in." 

Tom,  who  had  expected  this  greeting,  followed  Mr. 
Sumption  upstairs  into  the  room  which  he  called  his 
study,  but  which  had  few  points  of  difference  from  any 
cottage  living-room  in  Sunday  Street.  There  was  a 
frayed  carpet  with  a  lot  of  dirt  trodden  into  it,  and  a 
sun-sucked  wall-paper  adhering  as  closely  as  possible  to 
walls  complicate  of  beams  and  bulges.  A  solitary  book- 
shelf supported  Jessica's  First  Prayer,  Edwin's  Trial  or 
The  Little  Christian  Witness,  and  kindred  works,  cheek- 
by-jowl  with  Burton's  Four  Last  Things  and  a  cage  of 
white  mice.  There  was  another  cage  hanging  in  the 
window,  containing  a  broken-winged  thrush  which  the 
pastor,  after  the  failure  of  many  anathemas,  had  bought 
from  one  of  those  mysterious  gangs  of  small  boys  which 
prowl  round  villages.  An  old,  old  cat  sat  before  the 
empty  grate,  too  decrepit  to  make  more  than  one  attempt 
a  day  on  the  thrush  or  the  mice,  and  now  purring  wheez- 
ily  in  the  intervals  of  scratching  a  cankered  ear. 

On  the  table  was  a  wild,  unwieldy  parcel,  from  whose 
bursting  sides  the  contents  were  already  beginning  to 
ooze  forth. 

"  I'm  packing  a  parcel  for  Jerry,"  said  the  minister. 
"  I'd  just  finished  when  you  knocked." 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  was  coming  undone,"  said  Tom. 

"  So  it  does " — and  Mr.  Sumption  glanced  depre- 
catingly  at  his  handiwork.  "  If  only  I  had  some  sealing- 
wax  .  .  .  but  the  shop's  shut." 


60  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  It'll  be  open  to-morrow,"  said  Tom,  and  pictured 
Thyrza  pulling  up  the  blind  and  dusting  the  salmon-tins 
in  the  window  .  .  .  long  after  he  had  gone  to  catch  the 
early  train  from  Hailsham. 

"  Well,  to-morrow's  time  enough,  as  I  can't  post  it 
before  then.  It  ud  be  a  pity  for  anything  to  get 
lost.  There's  three  shillings'  worth  of  things  in  that 
parcel." 

"  Have  you  had  any  more  letters  from  Jerry?  " 

"  Yes,  I  had  one  yesterday  " — no  need  to  tell  Tom 
there  had  been  no  others — "  He  wants  chocolate  and 
cigarettes,  and  I  put  in  a  tin  of  cocoa  besides,  and  some 
little  squares  to  make  soup  of.  He'll  be  unaccountable 
pleased." 

"  How's  he  gitting  on  ?  " 

"  Valiant.  He  likes  being  along  of  the  other  lads. 
The  only  thing  that  worrits  him  is  your  sister." 

"My  sister?" 

"  Yes,  your  sister  Ivy.  Seemingly  she  never  answered 
a  postcard  he  wrote  her  ten  days  back,  and  you  knows 
he's  unaccountable  set  on  Ivy." 

"  It  aun't  no  use,  Mus'  Sumption.  Ivy's  got  no  thought 
for  him,  I'm  certain  sure,  and  he's  only  wasting  time  over 
her." 

The  minister's  comely  face  darkened,  and  he  cracked 
his  fingers  once  or  twice. 

"  It's  a  pity,  a  lamentable  pity.  That  boy  of  mine's 
crazy  on  Ivy  Beatup.  Are  you  sure  she  doesn't  care 
about  him,  Tom?  " 

"  Well,  who  knows  wot  a  gal  thinks  ?  I  can  only  put 
two  and  two  together.  But  seemingly  if  she'd  cared 
she'd  have  answered  his  postcard." 

"  Could  you  put  in  a  word  for  him?  " 

Young  Beatup  shook  his  head — 

"  I  woan't  meddle.    If  Ivy  doan't  care  I  can't  maake 


TOM  61 

her,  and  I  reckon  mother's  unaccountable  set  against  it 
too." 

He  had  said  the  wrong  thing.  Mr.  Sumption's  eyes 
became  like  burning  pits.  He  swung  his  hands  up  and 
cracked  them  like  a  pistol. 

"  Set  against  it,  is  she  ?  Set  against  my  Jerry  ?  May- 
be he  isn't  good  enough  for  her — a  clergyman's  son  for  a 
farmer's  daughter. 

"  I  never  said  naun  of  that,"  mumbled  Tom  uneasily, 
remembering  his  mother's  reference  to  "  gipsy  muck." 

"  It's  I  as  might  be  set  against  it,"  continued  the 
minister.  "  I  tell  you  that  boy's  been  bred  and  cut  above 
your  sister.  I  never  sent  him  to  a  board  school  along 
of  farmers'  children — -I  taught  him  myself,  everything  I 
learned  at  college.  He'd  know  as  much  I  do  if  he 
hadn't  forgotten  it.  Yet  I'm  not  proud ;  I  know  the  boy 
wants  your  sister  Ivy  and  ull  do  something  silly  if  he 
can't  get  her,  so  when  he  writes  to  me,  'Where's  Ivy? 
Find  out  why  she  didn't  answer  my  postcard,  and  tell  her 
I'll  go  mad  if  she  doesn't  take  some  notice  of  me  ' — why, 
then,  I  do  my  best — and  get  told  my  son's  not  good 
enough  for  your  father's  daughter." 

"  I  never  told  you  any  such  thing,"  said  Tom  dog- 
gedly, "  but  I  woan't  spik  to  Ivy.  She  knows  her  own 
business  best.  If  I  were  you  I'd  tell  Jerry  straight  as 
no  good  ull  come  of  his  going  after  her.  She  doan't  want 
him — I'm  certain  sure  of  that." 

The  pastor's  wrath  had  died  down  into  something 
more  piteous. 

"  I  daresay  you're  right,  Tom,  and  maybe  I  did  wrong 
to  speak  like  that.  After  all,  I  was  only  a  blacksmith  till 
the  Lord  called  me  away  ...  I  pray  that  He  may  not 
require  my  boasting  of  me." 

"  Well,  I'm  unaccountable  sorry  about  Ivy  being  lik 
that,  but  I  thought  it  better  to  spik  plain." 


62  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Mr.  Sumption  sat  down  rather  heavily  at  the  table. 

"  O  Lord,  how  shall  I  tell  Jerry?  If  I  tell  him  he'll  do 
something  wild,  sure  as  he's  Jerry  Sumption." 

"  Doan't  tell  him.  He'll  find  out  for  himself  soon 
enough." 

Mr.  Sumption  groaned. 

"  Tom  Beatup,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  reckon  you  think 
I'm  a  faithless,  unprofitable  steward  so  to  set  my  heart 
on  human  flesh  and  blood.  But  you'll  understand  a  bit 
of  what  I  feel  .  .  .  some  day,  when  you're  the  father 
of  a  son." 


14 

The  pale  morning  ray  came  slanting  over  the  sky 
from  Harebeating  towards  the  last  stars.  Slowly  the 
trees  and  hedges  loomed  out  against  the  trembling  yellow 
pools  of  the  dawn.  Colours  woke  in  the  fields,  soft  hazy 
greens,  and  blues  and  greys  that  ran  together  like  smoke 
.  .  .  ponds  began  to  gleam  among  the  spinneys,  discs 
of  mirrored  sky,  that  from  lustreless  white  became  glassy 
yellow,  then  kindled  from  glass  to  fire,  then  smouldered 
from  fire  to  rust. 

Tom  saw  the  window  square  light  up  and  frame  the 
familiar  picture  of  a  life's  mornings — the  oast-house,  the 
lombardy  poplar  topping  the  barn,  the  little  patch  of 
distant  fields  seen  between  the  oast  and  the  jutting  farm- 
house gable.  The  bed  was  pulled  up  close  to  the 
window,  to  allow  of  the  door  being  opened,  and  he  could 
lie  on  his  side  and  look  straight  out  at  the  loved  common 
things  which  perhaps  he  might  never  see  just  so  again. 

It  all  looked  very  quiet,  and  rather  cold,  and  the  early 
sunless  light  gave  it  a  peculiar  lifelessness,  as  if  it  was 
something  painted,  or  cut  in  cardboard.  Even  Tom  was 
conscious  of  its  cold,  dreamlike  quality;  he  always  said 


TOM  63 

that  "the  yard  looked  corpsy  at  break  o'  day."  Then 
the  distant  view  of  little  fields  suddenly  swam  into 
golden  light,  as  a  long  finger  of  sunlight  stroked  the  barn- 
roofs,  then  stabbed  in  at  the  window,  throwing  a  shaft  of 
dancing  golden  motes  across  the  room.  Tom  rose, 
climbed  out  of  bed  over  Zacky,  and  in  about  three  square 
feet  of  floor  space  shaved  and  dressed.  Then  he  went 
downstairs,  unlocked  the  house  door  and  stole  out  to  his 
last  morning's  work. 

No  one  was  about ;  it  was  not  till  more  than  an  hour 
later  that  the  two  antique  farm-hands,  Elphick  and 
Juglery,  came  up  from  Worge  Cottages.  By  that  time 
Tom  had  milked  the  cows,  mixed  the  chicken  food,  and 
driven  the  horses  down  to  Forges  field.  He  gave  the  two 
unskilled  labourers  their  orders  for  the  day  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  be  there  to  see  them  carried  out.  By  that 
time  Ivy  was  hunting  for  eggs,  and  Mrs.  Beatup  was 
struggling  with  the  kitchen  fire,  while  Mus'  Beatup,  in 
practical,  unlearned  mood,  had  gone  to  the  Sunk  field  to 
inspect  the  ewes. 

As  Ivy  came  out  of  the  hen-house  and  crossed  the 
yard,  cheery,  healthy,  blowsy,  with  eggs  in  a  bowl,  Tom 
had  a  sudden  thought  of  giving  her  Mr.  Sumption's 
message.  But  he  held  his  tongue.  He  had  meant  what 
he  said  when  he  told  the  minister  he  was  not  going  to 
meddle.  He  had  long  been  convinced  of  the  fact  that 
his  sister  knew  her  own  business;  besides,  Jerry  ,  .  . 
that  lousy  gipsy  chap  .  .  .  Pastor  might  say  he  was 
getting  on  valiant,  but  all  Dallington  knew  that  he  had 
been  given  seven  days  C.B.  within  a  week  of  his  joining. 

So,  with  nothing  for  Ivy  but  a  nod,  Tom  went  in  to 
breakfast.  Time  was  short,  but  the  breakfast  was  stilj 
in  a  rudimentary  state.  Mrs.  Beatup  fought  with  the 
kitchen  fire  among  whorls  of  smoke,  while  Nell,  coughing 
pathetically,  laid  the  table.  Harry  in  a  fit  of  brotherly 


64  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

love  was  cleaning  Tom's  best  boots  ready  for  his  journey 
to  Lewes — no  one  ever  went  to  Lewes  in  any  but  Sunday 
clothes. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Tom?  I  hope  as  you  aun't  in  a 
hurry.  This  fire's  bewitched.  Nell,  give  your  brother 
a  cut  off  the  loaf.  You'd  better  git  started,  Tom,  or 
you'll  lose  your  train." 

So  Tom's  last  breakfast  at  Worge  was  eaten  in  con- 
fusion and  mess,  the  family  dropping  in  one  by  one  for 
cuts  off  the  loaf  or  helpings  of  cold  bacon  spotted  with 
large  blisters  of  grease.  Last  of  all  the  breakfast  arrived, 
in  the  shape  of  the  tea-pot,  and  a  special  boiled  egg  for 
Tom.  He  was  not  able  to  do  more  than  gulp  down  the 
egg  and  scald  himself  with  the  tea.  Then  it  was  time  to 
go.  He  had  already  tied  up  a  few  little  things  in  a 
handkerchief — a  razor,  a  piece  of  soap,  an  old  frosted 
Christmas  card  which  for  some  obscure  reason  he  treas- 
ured— so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  say  good-bye 
and  beat  it  for  Hailsham,  a  good  seven  miles. 

Mus'  Beatup  put  down  his  tea-cup  and  looked  solemn. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  my  lad.  I  reckon  you've  got  to  go. 
Everyone's  off  to  fight  now,  seemingly,  so  I  suppose  you 
must  do  wot  others  do.  Not  that  I  think  so  much  of 
this  war  as  some  folks  seem  to — it's  bin  going  on  nigh 
two  years  now,  and  I  can't  see  as  we're  any  of  us  a  penny 
the  better  off.  Howsumdever  ..." 

"  He's  going  to  stop  it,"  said  Nell,  her  face  pink. 

"  Ho,  is  he  ?  Well,  I've  no  objection.  Maybe  I'll  write 
you  a  letter,  Tom,  when  Maudie  calves." 

"  I'd  be  much  obliged  if  you  would,  faather,  and  tell 
me  how  the  wheat  does  this  year,  and  them  new  oats  by 
the  Street." 

"  Good-bye,  Tom,"  said  Harry.  "  I  shall  miss  you 
unaccountable." 


TOM  65 

"And  I'll  miss  you,  too,"  said  Zacky,  "but  there'll 
be  more  room  in  the  bed." 

Tom  kissed  them  sheepishly  all  round,  then  walked 
out  of  the  door  without  a  word. 

He  was  in  the  yard,  when  he  heard  footsteps  creaking 
after  him,  and  turned  round  to  see  his  mother. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Tom,"  she  panted ;  "  I'll  go  wud  you  to 
the  geate." 

He  was  surprised,  but  it  did  not  strike  him  to  say  so. 
They  walked  down  the  drive  together  almost  in  silence, 
the  boy  hanging  his  head.  Mrs.  Beatup  sniffed  and 
choked  repeatedly. 

"  Doan't  go  near  those  Germans,  Tom,"  she  said, 
when  they  came  to  a  standstill.  "If  you  do,  you'll  be 
killed  for  certain  sure." 

"  I'll  go  where  I'm  put,  surelye,"  said  Tom  gloomily. 

"Well,  be  careful,  that's  all.  Kip  well  behind  the 
other  lads,  and  doan't  go  popping  your  head  over  walls 
or  meddling  wud  cannons.  And  kip  your  feet  dry,  Tom, 
and  doan't  git  into  temptation." 

"  I  promise,  mother,"  he  mumbled  against  her  neck,  and 
they  kissed  each  other  many  times  before  she  let  him  go. 

The  Rifle  Volunteer  looked  down  from  his  sign,  where 
he  stood  in  the  grey  uniform  and  mutton-chop  whiskers 
of  an  earlier  dispensation,  and  stared  at  the  stocky, 
shambling  little  figure  that  trudged  its  unwilling  way  to 
sacrifice — past  Worge  Cottages,  stewing  in  the  sunshine 
like  pippins,  past  Egypt  Farm  (which  Bill  Putland  would 
leave  later  and  more  conveniently  in  his  father's  dog- 
cart), past  the  shop,  with  a  glance  half  shy,  half  be- 
seeching, at  the  drawn  blinds,  past  the  willow  pond,  out 
of  Sunday  Street,  into  the  long  yellow  road  that  led  to 
the  unsought,  undesired  adventure. 


PART  II:      JERRY 


MRS.  BEATUP'S  tears  ran  down  her  face  as  she 
hurried  back  up  the  drive,  but  she  wiped  them 
vigorously  away  with  her  apron,  and  had  nothing 
but  her  red  eyes  to  show  when  she  entered  the  kitchen. 
Everyone  had  gone,  except  Ivy  and  Nell.     The  former 
had  not  finished  her  hearty  breakfast,   the   latter   was 
packing  her  books  for  school,  and  some  sort  of  a  wrangle 
was  going  on  between  them.     Mrs.  Beatup  heard  Nell 
call  Ivy  "  vulgar  "  just  as  she  came  into  the  room.     Ivy 
laughed,  truly  a  vulgar  performance  with  her  mouth  full. 

"  Now,  you  two  gals,  doan't  you  start  quarrelling  just 
when  you  brother's  a-gone ;  maybe  fur  ever." 

"  We  aun't  quarrelling,"  said  Ivy.  "  I've  told  her  she's 
sweet  on  parson,  that's  all." 

"  All !  "  sniffed  Nell.  "  Maybe  you  think  it's  nothing 
to  have  your  vulgar  mind  making  out  my — my  friend- 
ship with  Mr.  Poullett-Smith's  the  same  as  yours  with — 
with — anyone  that  ull  let  you  make  sheep's  eyes  at 
Jhim." 

"  Nell !  "  cried  her  mother.    "  For  shaum !  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  " — the  younger  girl's  anger  had 
been  roused  by  many  coarse  flicks — "  everyone  talks  about 
Ivy's  goings-on." 

"  I  doan't  care  if  they  do,"  said  Ivy  cavernously  in 
her  tea-cup.  "  Reckon  it's  cos  they're  jealous  of  me 
gitting  the  boys." 

"  Well,  Ivy,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup,  "  I  doan't  hold  wud 

66 


JERRY  67 

your  goings-on,  nuther;  but  anyway  you're  use- 
ful." 

"  I'm  earning  money,  though,"  said  Nell ;  "  at  least 
I  shall  be  when  my  third  year's  up." 

"And  how  soon  ull  that  be,  I'd  lik  to  know?  There 
you  go,  out  all  day,  when  you  might  be  helping  us  at 
home,  and  not  a  penny  to  show  fur  it." 

"  Mother,  I've  told  you  again  and  again — why  won't 
you  understand? — I'm  being  given  lessons  in  exchange 
for  those  I  give  myself,  and " 

"  Lessons !  A  girl  turned  seventeen !  I  call  it  lament- 
able. I'd  a-done  wud  my  schooling  at  twelve." 

"  But  you  know  I  have  to  pass  an  exam  ..." 

"  I  doan't  see  no  '  have '  in  it.  Better  kip  at  hoame 
and  help  me  wud  the  cooking.  Out  all  day  and  bring 
home  no  money !  I  doan't  call  that " 

"  Well,  I'm  off,"  said  Ivy,  getting  up  and  wiping  her 
mouth.  "  You  two  are  lik  a  couple  of  barndoor  cocks, 
walking  round  and  round  each  other.  I've  summat 
better  to  do — I've  the  passage  to  scrub  " — and  she  took 
her  sacking  apron  off  the  nail. 

"Where's  Zacky?"  asked  Mrs.  Beatup.  "Has  he 
started  for  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  gone  wud  the  Sindens." 

"And  Harry?" 

Ivy  laughed.  "  Oh,  Harry's  along  of  faather,  in  the 
Sunk  field — unaccountable  good  and  hardworking  to- 
day, because  Tom's  a-gone ;  seemingly,  he'd  sooner  please 
him  now  he  aun't  here  to  see  than  when  he  was  here 
fretting  his  heart  out  over  Harry's  lazy  bones." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  as  someone  remembers  my  poor  boy's 
gone,  and  is  lik  to  be  killed." 

Mrs.  Beatup's  tears  burst  out  afresh,  but  Ivy  com- 
forted her  with  a  kiss  and  a  clap  and  a  few  cheery  words, 
and  soon  had  her  interested  in  the  various  bootstains 


68  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

on  the  passage-floor.  "  Cow-dung,  that's  faather ;  and 
horse-dung,  that's  Tom ;  and  sheep-dung,  that's  Juglery ; 
and  that  miry  clay's  jest  Zacky  spannelling.  ..." 


Nell  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and  started  for  school. 
A  neat,  shabby  little  figure,  with  her  town  hat  pulled 
down  over  her  soft  hair,  she  walked  quickly  between 
dust-powdered  hedges  to  Brownbread  Street,  panting  a 
little,  because  she  was  anaemic,  and  also  because  she  was 
still  a  trifle  indignant.  Nell  did  not  view  life  and  the 
War  as  her  family  viewed  them.  Her  different  education 
had  made  them  not  quite  such  matters  of  bread-and- 
cheese.  She  alone  at  Worge  had  felt  the  humiliation — 
as  distinct  from  the  inconvenience — of  Tom's  conscrip- 
tion. She  had  always  despised  him  because  he  did  not 
volunteer  during  the  early  stages  of  the  War,  and  when 
the  Conscription  Act  came  into  force  she  despised  him 
still  more  for  his  appeal  to  the  Tribunal.  She  felt  that 
she  could  never  think  proudly  of  him,  knowing  how  un- 
willingly he  had  gone,  knowing  that  he  cared  for  nothing 
except  leaving  Worge,  that  he  never  thought  of  the  great 
cause  of  righteousness  he  was  to  fight  for,  or  understood 
the  mighty  issues  of  his  unwilling  warfare. 

The  rest  of  the  family  were  all  of  a  block.  To  her 
mother  the  War  was  merely  a  matter  of  prices  and  scar- 
cities, to  her  father  it  was  drink  restrictions  and  the 
closing  of  public-houses,  to  Ivy  it  was  picture  postcards 
and  boys  in  khaki,  to  Harry  the  unwilling  performance 
of  tasks  which  would  otherwise  have  been  done  by  more 
efficient  hands,  to  Zacky  the  obscure  manoeuvres  of  a 
gang  of  small  boys  whose  imaginations  had  been  touched 
by  militarism.  To  Nell  alone  belonged  the  fret  and 
anxiety  of  the  times,  the  shock  of  bad  news,  the  struggle 


JERRY  69 

of  ineffectual  small  labours  to  win  her  a  place  in  the 
great  woe. 

To-day  she  was  early  for  school,  as  she  had  meant  to 
be,  for  at  the  church  she  stopped  and  sat  down  in  the 
porch.  St.  Wilfred's,  Brownbread  Street,  was  only  a 
chapel-of-ease  under  the  mother  church  of  Dallington. 
It  was  new-built  of  sandstone,  an  unfortunate  symbol  of 
that  Rock  against  which  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  pre- 
vail. The  interior,  glimpsed  through  the  open  door,  was 
dim  and  mediaeval,  the  first  effect  due  to  the  deep  tones 
of  the  stained-glass  windows,  where  the  saints  wore  robes 
of  crimson  and  sapphire  and  passional  violet,  and  the 
latter  to  the  several  dark  oil  paintings,  and  the  thick  gilt 
tracery  of  the  screen,  through  which  the  altar  showed 
richly  coloured,  with  one  winking  red  light  before  it. 

The  curate-in-charge  of  Brownbread  Street  was  of 
mediaeval  tendencies,  and  did  his  best,  both  in  service 
and  sermon,  to  transport  his  congregation  from  the  wood- 
bine-age to  the  age  of  pilgrimages  and  monasteries,  with 
the  result  that,  with  unmediaeval  licence,  they  sought 
illicit  and  heretical  refreshment  in  Georgian  Bethels  and 
Victorian  Tabernacles,  where  they  could  sing  good  Moody 
and  Sankey  tunes,  instead  of  treacherous  Gregorians  and 
wobbling  Plainsong. 

But  Nell  loved  the  low,  soft,  creeping  tones  of 
Gregory's  mode,  loved  the  dimness,  the  mystery,  the 
faint  echo  of  Sarum  .  .  .  and  if  in  her  love  was  a 
personal  element  which  she  denied,  the  church  was  not 
less  a  refuge  from  the  coarse  frustrations  of  her  every- 
day life,  such  as  the  Forge  was  to  Mr.  Sumption  and  the 
Shop  had  been  to  Tom. 

To-day  the  priest  was  at  the  altar,  saying  the  Last 
Gospel.  Nell  could  just  see  him  from  where  she  sat. 
He  would  be  out  in  a  couple  of  minutes.  She  watched 
him  glide  off  into  the  shadows,  then  she  rose  and  walked 


70  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

down  to  the  little  wicket-gate,  where  the  path  from  the 
porch  met  the  path  from  the  vestry.  There  was  more 
colour  in  her  cheeks  than  usual. 

Now  and  then  she  looked  anxiously  across  the  road  at 
the  schoolhouse  clock,  where  the  large  hand  was  creeping 
swiftly  towards  the  hour.  From  the  clock  her  eyes 
slewed  round  to  the  vestry  door.  At  last  the  handle 
shook,  and  out  came  Mr.  Poullett-Smith,  walking  hur- 
riedly, with  his  cassock  flapping  round  his  legs.  He  did 
not  seem  to  see  Nell  till  he  had  nearly  walked  into  her. 

"  Oh — er — good  morning,  Miss  Beatup.  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Poullett-Smith.  I — I  wanted  to 
tell  you  I'm  so  sorry  I  haven't  finished  that  book  you 
lent  me.  I'm  afraid  I've  kept  it  a  terrible  time." 

Her  words  came  with  a  rush,  blurred  faintly  in  the 
last  of  a  Sussex  accent,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his 
face  with  an  almost  childish  eagerness  which  he  could 
scarcely  fail  to  notice. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  trouble.  Keep  the  book  as  long  as 
you  like — the  Sermons  of  St.  Gregory,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes — I  think  they're  wonderful,"  breathed  Nell, 
hoping  he  would  never  know  how  difficult  she  found  them 
to  understand. 

"  They  are  indeed,  and  so  stimulating." 

The  Rev.  Henry  Poullett-Smith  was  a  tall  man,  with 
a  long  nose,  a  slight  stoop,  and  a  waxy  brownish  skin 
that  made  him  look  like  one  of  his  own  altar  candles. 
As  he  spoke  to  Nell,  he  kept  on  glancing  up  the  street, 
and  when  a  girl  on  a  bicycle  came  round  the  corner,  he 
moved  a  few  steps  out  into  the  road  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Lamb." 

Marian  Lamb,  who  was  in  Red  Cross  uniform,  jumped 
off  her  bicycle  and  shook  hands  with  him  before  she 
shook  hands  with  Nell  Beatup. 


JERRY  71 

"  On  your  way  to  the  hospital,  I  see." 
"  Yes.    I'm  on  morning  duty  this  week." 
"  Do  you  prefer  that  to  the  afternoons?  " 
"  Not  in  summer.    I  do  in  winter,  though." 
Nell  felt  ignored  and  insulted.    She  made  no  effort  to 
join  in  this  sprightly  dialogue.    There  was  something  in 
the  curate's  manner  towards  the  other  girl  which  seemed 
to  stab  her  through  with  a  sense  of  her  inferiority,  with 
memories  of  the  coarse,  muddling  life  of  Worge  to  which 
she  belonged.    It  was  not  that  he  showed  more  courtesy, 
but  he  seemed  to  show  more  freedom  ...  he  was  more 
at  his  ease  with  one  of  his  own  class. 

Her  cheeks  burned.    Of  course  she  was  not  his  equal. 
He  might  talk  to  her  and  lend  her  books,  but  he  did  it 
only   out  of   kindness ;   probably   looked  upon   it  as   a 
superior  form  of  parish  relief — doled  the  books  as  he 
doled  blankets.  .   .   .  She  shrugged  away,  and  the  move- 
ment made  him  at  once  turn  to  her  with  a  remark : 
"  Have  you  been  over  the  hospital,  Miss  Beatup?  " 
"  No — I've  never  had  time  .   .   .  and  I  must  hurry  off 
now.    Good  morning !  " 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  noticed  that  her  voice  was  thick 
and  drawly,  unlike  Miss  Lamb's  sharp,  clear  tones.  She 
gripped  her  satchel  and  hurried  across  the  road  to  the 
schoolhouse. 


During  the  next  few  days  the  most  remarkable  sight 
at  Worge  was  Harry's  industriousness.  For  nearly  a 
week  he  rose  at  five,  fed  the  pigs  and  helped  with  the 
milking,  and  during  the  whole  day  he  was  available  for 
carting,  digging,  dunging,  or  anything  else  he  had  for- 
merly fled  from.  He  helped  Elphick  spray  the  young 
fuggles  down  by  Forges  and  the  Sunk  Field,  he  took  a 
cartload  of  roots  over  to  Three  Cups  Corner,  he  groomed 


72  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

the  horses  and  plaited  their  manes,  he  compelled  Zacky 
with  threats  of  personal  violence  to  spend  Saturday  after- 
noon scaring  birds  from  the  gooseberries,  instead  of,  with 
six  other  little  boys,  carrying  out  an  enveloping  move- 
ment on  Punnetts  Town,  with  three-ha'pence  to  spend  on 
sweets  in  the  captured  citadel.  On  the  occasion  of  Mus' 
Beatup's  next  lapse,  he  stalled  the  cows  and  doctored  the 
mare,  and  also,  with  much  foresight,  took  off  and  hid  his 
father's  boots,  which  prevented  both  his  going  to  bed  in 
them  and  his  throwing  them  at  his  wife. 

It  would  have  been  well  if  this  virtuous  state  could 
have  lasted  till  the  hay  harvest.  This  was  early,  for 
there  was  a  spell  of  heat  in  May,  and  the  fields  were  soon 
parched.  The  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  ripe  hayseed, 
of  the  baking  glumes  of  the  oats,  of  the  hot,  sickly  stew 
of  elder-flower  and  meadowsweet.  Along  the  Four 
Roads  eddies  of  dust  flew  from  under  the  wheels  and 
caked  the  grass  and  fennel-heads  beside  the  way,  and  in 
the  ruts  of  the  little  lanes  the  bennet  and  rest-harrow 
sprouted,  with  the  thick-stalked  sprawly  pig-nut,  and 
ragged  robin.  Unfortunately,  all  this  scent  and  heat  made 
Harry  remember  a  wood  over  by  Cade  Street,  where  he 
had  once  lain  and  watched  the  moon  rise  rusty  beyond 
Lobden's  House.  It  was  unfortunate  that  he  had  such 
a  memory,  for  it  had  more  than  once  been  his  undoing. 
Somewhere  under  Harry's  skin,  mixed  with  the  sluggish 
currents  of  his  country  blood,  was  a  strain  of  poetry  and 
imagination.  He  cared  nothing  for  books,  nothing  for 
beauty,  nothing  for  music  (except,  perhaps,  when  they 
sang  "Diadem"  in  the  Bethel  at  dusk),  and  yet  every 
now  and  then  something  would  pull  him  from  the  earth 
he  toiled  on — a  thing  he  was  unaware  of  three  weeks  out 
of  the  four,  seeing  only  the  sods  cleaving  together — 
something  would  call  him  from  meadow-hills  that  swept 
up  their  broomy  cones  to  the  sky,  an  adventure  would 


JERRY  73 

call  from  the  Four  Roads,  a  longing  would  call  from  the 
moon  .  .  .  and  off  he  would  go  to  Stunts  Green,  to 
Starnash,  Oxbottom's  Town,  or  Burnt  Kitchen — just  as, 
after  a  sober  week,  Mus'  Beatup  would  go  off  to  the 
Rifle  Volunteer. 

His  promise  to  Tom  had  made  him  resist  the  cruder 
temptations  of  ratting  Sindens  or  bird's-nesting  Kad- 
wells;  but  now  it  seemed  to  pull  the  other  way.  His 
brother  was  the  only  person  he  was  in  any  degree  afraid 
of,  and  he  was  safe  at  Waterheel,  no  longer  his  father's 
vicar,  waiting  with  barnyard  discipline  for  the  truant's 
return. 

So  Harry  went  off  to  that  wood  at  Cade  Street,  and 
spent  the  night  there,  in  a  hollow  tree,  watching  the  big 
yellow  stars  shuddering  above  the  ash-boughs  like 
candles  in  the  wind,  and  sleeping  with  his  head  in  a  soft 
mush  of  last  year's  leaves,  that  sent  him  back  with  his 
cheeks  all  smeary,  and  his  hair  caked  with  leaf- 
mast. 

That  was  the  day  of  the  haycutting,  when  Mus'  Beatup 
and  Juglery  and  Elphick  sweated  with  bent  backs  in  the 
field.  Worge  possessed  a  horse-rake,  but  the  cutting  had 
all  to  be  done  by  hand,  and  the  men's  backs  ached  and 
scorched  in  the  sun,  and  their  sweat  dropped  on  their 
scythes.  This  labour,  as  was  only  natural,  started  in 
Mus'  Beatup  a  fearful  thirst,  and  that  night  was  "one 
of  his  bad  nights  " — one  of  the  worst,  in  fact,  for  he 
threw  the  candlestick  at  his  wife  as  well  as  his  boots, 
and  would  not  let  her  come  to  bed,  so  that  she  had  to 
sleep  with  Ivy  and  Nell. 

Harry  felt  rather  ashamed,  and  tried  hard  to  atone  the 
next  day  by  working  himself  sick.  Mrs.  Beatup  and  Ivy 
helped  too,  since  haymaking  was  the  one  kind  of  field 
work  which  the  women  did  not  feel  it  derogatory  to 
perform.  Ivy  was  a  whacking  girl,  nearly  as  good  as  a 


74  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

man;  but  Mus'  Beatup  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
asking  her  to  help  fill  Tom's  empty  place.  If  town  girls 
thought  so  little  of  themselves  as  to  enrol  for  farm  work, 
that  was  no  concern  of  his,  but  he  was  hemmed  if  he'd 
have  his  wife  and  daughter  meddling  with  anything  be- 
yond the  fowl-house,  and  as  for  employing  other  women 
whose  dignity  mattered  less  to  him — and,  apparently,  to 
themselves — he'd  sooner  Worge  went  to  the  auctioneer's, 
just  to  teach  the  government  a  lesson. 


So  Worge  muddled  through  its  haymaking,  and  then 
the  shearing;  and  Harry  was  sometimes  idle  and  some- 
times industrious,  and  Mus'  Beatup  was  sometimes  drunk 
and  sometimes  sober.  The  oats  in  the  Street  Field  and 
the  field  at  the  back  of  the  Rifle  Volunteer  were  slowly 
parching  to  the  colour  of  dust,  though  thick  green 
shadows  rippled  in  them,  and  told  how  far  off  still  the 
harvest  was.  They  were  spring-sown  potato-oats,  chosen 
by  Tom  on  account  of  their  vigorous  constitution,  though 
otherwise  not  very  well  suited  to  the  clays  of  Sunday 
Street.  He  had  manured  them  at  their  sowing  with  rape- 
cake,  nursed  their  first  sproutings,  and  now  in  every  letter 
enquired  after  their  progress.  "  Keep  an  eye  on  them, 
dear  father,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  and  do  not  let  them  stand 
after  they're  ripe,  or  they  will  shed  there  seeds  for  cer- 
tain sure,  being  potatos." 

Tom  had  been  some  weeks  now  at  Waterheel  in  the 
Midlands,  a  private  in  the  Sussex  Regiment,  with  an 
elaborate  and  mystifying  address,  which  his  family  found 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  cramming  into  the  envelope. 
They  did  not  write  to. him  as  often  as  he  wrote  to  them, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  were  six  to  one.  But  then 
they  were  not  far  from  home,  dreaming  of  the  old  fields, 
long-ing:  for  the  old  faces. 


JERRY  75 

On  the  whole  though,  Tom  was  happy  enough.  He 
found  his  new  life  strange,  but  not  totally  uncongenial. 
A  comfortable  want  of  imagination  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  put  Worge  out  of  mind,  now  that  it  was  also  out 
of  sight,  and  he  was  among  lads  of  his  own  age,  old 
acquaintances  some  of  them — Kadwell  of  Stilliands 
Tower,  and  two  Viners  from  Satanstown,  Bill  Putland, 
Jerry  Sumption.  There  was  Mus'  Archie,  too,  with  a 
nod  and  a  kind  word  now  and  then  to  intensify  that 
"  feeling  of  Sussex  chaps  "  which  was  not  quite  such  an 
uncommon  one  now ;  and  there  was  Mus'  Dixon,  Mus' 
Archie's  elder  brother,  who  had  lived  in  London  and 
written  for  the  papers  before  the  War,  and  now  used  his 
sword  to  cut  the  leaves  of  books — so  his  orderly  said — 
yet  was  a  brave  man  none  the  less,  and  a  good  officer, 
though  he  hated  the  life  as  much  as  his  brother 
loved  it. 

The  family  at  Worge  were  surprised  to  find  that  Tom's 
best  pal  was  Bill  Putland.  In  Sunday  Street  he  had  had 
very  little  to  do  with  the  Squire's  cheeky  chauffeur,  and 
there  had  always  been  a  gnawing  rivalry  between  Egypt 
and  Worge.  But  now  that  they  had  joined  up  together, 
and  been  drafted  into  the  same  company,  sharing  the 
same  awkwardness  and  fumblings,  a  friendship  sprang 
up  between  them,  and  thrived  in  the  atmosphere  of  their 
common  life.  Putland  was  a  much  smarter  recruit  than 
Beatup,  but  this  did  not  cause  ill-feeling,  for  Bill  did 
much  to  help  Tom,  passing  on  to  him  the  tips  he  picked 
up  so  much  more  quickly  than  his  friend,  with  the  result 
that  Tom  got  through  the  mangold-wurzel  stage  sooner 
than  Mus'  Archie  had  expected.  Tom  on  his  side  was 
humbly  conscious  of  Bill's  superiority.  "  He's  been  bred 
up  different  from  us,"  he  wrote  home  to  Worge.  "  You 
can  see  that  by  the  way  he  talks  and  everything,  and 
he's  a  sharper  chap  than  me  by  a  long  chalk.  But  he's 
unaccountable  good-hearted,  and  he  helps  me  with  my 


76  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

leathers  after  he's  done  his  own,  for  he's  a  sight  quicker 
than  me." 

Tom  more  often  asked  for  news  than  he  gave  it. 
After  all,  life  at  Waterheel  Camp  did  not  consist  of  much 
besides  drills  and  route-marchings,  with  relaxations  at 
the  Y.M.C.A.  hut,  and  occasional  visits  to  the  town. 
No  one  at  Worge  would  care  to  hear  the  daily  doings  of 
such  a  life,  and  still  less  were  they  likely  to  understand 
it.  He  was  uneasily  conscious  of  what  his  father  would 
say  about  these  things  at  the  Rifle  Volunteer.  "  Took 
my  boy  away  from  his  honest  work,  and  all  they  do  is  to 
keep  him  forming  fours  and  traipsing  about  the  country 
and  playing  dominoes  at  the  Y.M.C.A.  That's  wot  the 
Governmunt  spends  our  money  on,"  etc.,  etc.  And  Tom 
was  now  soldier  enough  to  resent  any  criticism  of  the 
Army  from  outside  it. 

In  other  quarters  though,  it  appeared  he  was  not  so 
reticent.  After  a  while  his  family  discovered  that  Thyrza 
Honey  was  hearing  from  him  pretty  regularly.  More- 
over, one  day  Mrs.  Beatup,  buying  candles,  found  Thyrza 
wearing  a  regimental  button  mounted  as  a  brooch,  and 
was  told  it  was  a  gift  from  Tom. 

"  He's  sweet  on  her,"  said  Ivy,  when  the  news  was 
told. 

"  Him — he's  just  a  bit  of  a  boy,"  said  his  mother. 

"  The  Army  maakes  men  unaccountable  sudden." 

"  Well,  anyway,  she's  four  years  older  than  he  is,  and 
wot  he  can  see  in  her  is  more'n  I  can  say." 

"  She's  got  a  bit  o'  money  though,"  said  Mus'  Beatup. 
"  I  shan't  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel  if  he  wants  to  marry 
her." 

"  Him  marry !  Wot  are  you  thinking  of,  Ned  ?  He's 
only  a  bit  of  a  boy,  as  I've  told  you.  Besides,  she  aun't 
got  no  looks ;  she's  just  a  plain  dump  of  a  woman,  and 
a  boy  liks  a  pretty  faace." 


JERRY  77 

"  Mrs.  Honey's  middling  pretty,"  said  Ivy,  "  with  her 
colour  and  teeth  and  all." 

"  You've  got  queer  notions  of  pretty.  Why,  only  yes- 
terday Mrs.  Sinden  wur  saying  to  me  as  she  can't  think 
wot  Sam  Honey  ever  saw  in  Thyrza  Shearne.  And  you 
can't  git  naun  out  of  her,  she's  slow  as  a  cow,  and  she 
looks  at  you  lik  a  cow  chewing  the  cud  ..." 

Nell  broke  in — 

"  You're  all  taking  it  for  granted  that  Mrs.  Honey 
would  have  Tom  if  she  was  given  the  chance.  Maybe 
he'd  be  quite  safe  even  if  he  asked  her." 

"  Nonsense,  my  girl,"  cried  Mus'  Beatup.  "  A  woman 
ud  taake  any  man  as  wur  fool  enough  to  ask  her ;  if  a 
woman's  unwed  you  may  reckon  she's  never  been  asked." 

Ivy  laughed  loudly  at  this,  and  Nell  turned  crimson. 

"  Women  aren't  going  quite  so  cheap  as  you  think." 

"  Oh,  aun't  they ! — when  it's  bin  proved  as  there's 
twice  as  many  of  'em  as  there's  men.  I  tell  you,  when 
there's  a  glut  of  turnips,  the  price  goes  down." 

"  There  aren't  twice  as  many  women  as  men.  Miss 
Goldsack  was  saying  only  the  other  day  that " 

"  And  I  tell  you  it's  bin  proved  as  there  are,  and  when 
the  War's  over  there'll  be  more  still,  and  they'll  be  going 
about  weeping  and  hollering  and  praying  to  the  men  to 
taake  them." 

"  They  won't.  They'll  have  something  better  to  do. 
This  War's  teaching  women  to  work,  and " 

"  Work !  I  wudn't  give  a  mouldy  onion  fur  women's 
work.  ..." 

And  so  on,  and  so  on. 


Thyrza  herself  was  a  little  surprised  to  hear  so  often 
from  Tom,  and  the  brooch  was  a  piece  of  daring  she  had 
never  expected.  It  is  true  that  from  time  to  time  she 


78  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

sent  him  presents  of  chocolate  and  cigarettes,  but  his 
letters  were  much  more  than  an  acknowledgment  of  these. 
They  were  not  love-letters,  but  Thyrza  knew  that  they 
contained  more  confidences  than  those  he  sent  to  Worge 
— she  was  familiar  with  all  the  common  round  of  his 
day,  from  reveille  to  lights-out.  He  told  her  about  the 
men  he  liked  and  those  he  didn't,  about  his  drills  and 
fatigues,  about  his  food  and  Cookie's  queer  notions  of  a 
stew — Thyrza  knew  what  was  an  "  army  biscuit,"  a 
"  choky,"  a  "  gor'  blimey,"  and  the  number  of  stripes 
worn  respectively  by  "  God  Almighty,"  "  swank "  and 
"  goat."  Scarcely  a  week  passed  without  one  of  those 
thin  yellowish  envelopes,  with  the  red  triangle  in  the  cor- 
ner, slipping  under  the  shop  door — addressed  in  smeary, 
indelible  pencil,  and  smelling  of  woodbines. 

She  noticed  a  growing  assurance  in  his  style — partly 
due,  perhaps,  to  the  friendliness  of  her  replies,  partly, 
no  doubt,  to  the  growing  manhood  in  him.  She  had 
always  looked  on  Tom  as  a  kind,  slow  chap,  with  very 
little  to  say  for  himself,  and  not  too  much  thinking  going 
on  either,  but  with  an  unaccountable  good  heart.  Now 
she  realised  that  the  Army  was  smartening  him  up,  giv- 
ing him  confidence,  enlarging  his  ideas.  Thyrza  was  only 
a  countrywoman  herself,  born  within  ten  miles  of  where 
she  lived  now,  but  she  did  not  fail  to  notice  or  to  respect 
this  growth  in  Tom.  "  He's  gitting  new  ideas  in  his 
head,  and  he's  waking  up  a  bit.  I  shan't  lik  him  the  less 
for  being  readier  wud  his  tongue,  surelye." 

One  of  the  new  ideas  which  got  into  Tom's  head  at 
Waterheel  was  the  desirability — indeed,  the  urgency — 
of  having  a  "  girl."  All  the  chaps  had  girls — Bill  Put- 
land  wrote  to  Polly  Sinden  at  Little  Worge,  though  he 
had  taken  very  little  notice  of  her  while  he  was  at  home ; 
Jerry  Sumption  wrote  half -threatening,  half -appealing 
scrawls  to  Ivy  Beatup ;  Kadwell  and  Viner  had  sweet- 


JERRY  79 

hearts  at  the  Foul  Mile  and  the  Trulilows — every  eve- 
ning at  the  Y.M.C.A.  a  hundred  indelible  pencils  travelled 
to  and  fro  from  tongue  to  paper  in  the  service  of  that  god 
who  campaigns  with  the  god  of  war,  and  occasionally 
snatches  his  victories.  There  was  also  the  need  to 
receive  letters — a  need  which  Tom  had  never  felt  before, 
but  now  ached  in  his  breast,  when  at  post-time  he  saw 
other  men  walk  away  tearing  envelopes,  while  he  stood 
empty-handed.  Thyrza  wrote  more  often  and  more  fully 
than  his  mother,  and  he  would  answer  quickly,  to  make 
her  write  again.  So  closer  and  closer  between  them  was 
drawn  that  link  of  smudged  envelopes  and  ruled  note- 
paper,  with  their  formalities  of  "  Your  letter  received 
quite  safe,"  and  "  Hoping  this  finds  you  well,  as  it  leaves 
me  at  present " — till  the  chain  was  forged  which  should 
bind  them  for  ever. 

Thyrza  pondered  this  in  her  heart.  She  was  used  to 
much  indefinite  courtship,  most  of  it  just  before  lamp- 
time  in  her  own  little  shop,  with  the  prelude  of  a  "  penn- 
'orth of  bull's-eyes  for  the  children  "  or  "  a  packet  of 
Player's,  please."  She  had  also  been  definitely  courted 
once  or  twice  in  her  short  widowhood — by  Bourner  of 
the  Forge,  a  widower  with  five  sturdy  children,  and 
Hearsfield  of  Mystole.  She  was  a  type  of  girl  who,  while 
appealing  little  to  her  fellow-women,  who  "  never  cud  see 
naun  in  Thyrza  Honey,"  yet  had  a  definite  attraction  for 
men,  by  reason  of  that  same  softness  and  slowness  for 
which  her  own  sex  despised  her.  She  had  no  particular 
wish  to  marry  again,  and  at  the  same  time  no  particular 
objection.  Her  first  marriage  had  not  been  so  happy  as 
to  make  her  anxious  to  repeat  it,  but  it  had  also  lacked 
those  elements  of  degradation  which  make  a  woman 
shrink  from  trusting  herself  a  second  time  to  a  master. 
There  was  too  much  business  and  too  much  gossip  in  her 
life  for  her  to  feel  her  loneliness  as  a  widow,  and  yet  she 


80  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

sometimes  craved  for  the  little  child  which  had  died  at 
birth  two  years  ago — she  "  cud  do  wud  a  child,"  she  some- 
times said. 

Tom  Beatup  attracted  her  strongly.  He  was  much  her 
own  type — slow,  ruminative  and  patient  as  the  beasts  he 
tended — yet  she  saw  him  as  a  being  altogether  more  help- 
less than  herself,  one  less  able  to  think  and  plan,  one 
whom  she  could  "  manage  "  tenderly.  He  was  not  so 
practical  as  she,  and  more  in  need  of  affection,  of  which 
he  got  less.  Thyrza  sometimes  pictured  his  round  dark 
head  upon  her  breast,  her  arm  about  him,  holding  him 
there  in  the  crook  of  it,  both  lover  and  child.  .  .  . 

From  the  material  point  of  view,  the  match  was  not 
a  good  one ;  but  Thyrza  was  comfortably  off,  and  her 
miniature  trade  was  brisk.  They  were  both  too  un- 
sophisticated to  make  a  barrier  of  her  little  stock  of 
worldly  goods — he  had  his  pay,  so  his  independence 
would  not  suffer,  and  she  would  have  a  separation 
allowance  into  the  bargain.  He  was  a  slow  wooer,  and 
the  tides  of  his  boldness  had  never  risen  again  to  the 
level  of  that  sticky  kiss  he  had  given  her  hand  as  she 
served  the  bull's-eyes — but  she  was  sure  of  him,  and, 
being  Thyrza,  "  slow  as  a  cow,"  had  no  objection  to 
waiting. 


Another  woman  in  Sunday  Street  was  being  courted 
from  the  Waterheel  Y.M.C.A.,  but  she  did  not  fill  her 
part  as  comfortably  as  Thyrza.  Not  that  Ivy  Beatup 
had  much  real  concern  for  Jerry  Sumption's  passion, 
beating  against  her  indifference  as  a  wave  beats  and 
breaks  against  a  rock.  Her  chief  trouble  was  that  Jerry 
now  threw  out  hints  of  an  approaching  leave,  and  though 
she  had  no  objection  to  his  mingling  rage  and  tenderness 


JERRY  81 

on  paper,  she  disliked  the  thought  of  having  to  confront 
them  mingled  in  his  gipsy  face. 

The  minister's  son  was  one  of  Ivy's  mistakes — she 
made  mistakes  occasionally,  as  she  would  herself 
acknowledge  with  a  good-humoured  grin.  But  they  were 
never  very  serious.  And,  as  the  saying  is,  she  knew  how 
to  take  care  of  herself.  Unfortunately,  Jerry  had  given 
her  more  than  ordinary  trouble.  After  some  years  of 
standoffishness  and  suspicion — for  Mrs.  Beatup  had 
never  liked  her  children  to  play  with  the  gipsy  woman's 
son — Ivy  and  Jerry  had  somehow  been  thrown  together 
during  his  last  holiday  from  Erith,  and  she  had  good- 
naturedly  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  and  take  her  to  Senlac 
Fair,  as  she  would  have  allowed  any  decent  lad  on  leave. 
It  was  unlucky  that  what  had  been  to  her  no  more  than 
a  bit  of  fun  should  be  for  Jerry  the  tinder  to  set  his  body 
and  soul  alight.  Ivy,  more  buxom  than  beautiful,  and, 
with  her  apple-face  and  her  barley-straw  hair,  typical  of 
those  gaujos  his  mother's  people  had  always  distrusted, 
somehow  became  his  earth  and  sky.  He  loved  her,  and 
went  after  her  as  the  tide  after  the  moon. 

Ivy  tried  to  detach  him  by  the  various  means  known 
to  her  experience.  For  a  long  time  she  ignored  his  letters 
and  postcards.  Then  when  these  continued  to  pour  upon 
her,  she  sent  a  cold,  careless  reply,  which  had  the  con- 
trary effect  of  making  his  furnace  seven  times  hotter ; 
so  that  her  next  letter  was  warmed  unconsciously  by 
the  flame  of  his,  and  she  saw  that  instead  of  having 
shaken  him  off,  she  had  gone  a  step  further  in  his 
company. 

No  doubt  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  tell  him  to  his 
face  that  she  would  not  have  him.  He  would  not  be  the 
first  chap  she  had  told  this,  but  Ivy  had  an  unaccount- 
able shrinking  from  repeating  the  process  with  Jerry. 
There  was  in  him  a  subtle  essence,  a  mystifying  quality 
— perhaps  it  was  no  more  than  the  power  of  a  sharper 


82  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

life  and  death — which  made  him  different  from  the  other 
lads  she  knew,  and  struck  terror  into  her  country  soul. 
He  was  the  first  man  she  had  been  ever  so  little  afraid  of. 
Ivy  had  the  least  imagination  of  all  the  Beatups.  That 
spark  which  sent  Nell  to  the  church,  and  Harry  to  the 
woods,  which  made  Tom  feel  more  than  roots  and  clay 
in  the  earth  on  which  he  trod,  and  Zacky  sometimes 
almost  think  himself  a  British  army  corps,  even  that 
little  spark  had  never  flickered  up  in  Ivy's  honest  heart. 
Her  world  was  made  of  things  she  could  taste  and  see 
and  hear  and  smell  and  handle,  and  very  good  things  she 
found  them.  She  resented  the  presence  in  her  life  of 
something  which  responded  to  none  of  these  tests. 
Jerry's  love  for  her  was  "  queer,"  just  as  Jerry  himself 
was  "  queer,"  and  Ivy  did  not  like  "  queer  "  things. 

When  the  long-dreaded  leave  came  at  last,  it  took  her 
by  surprise.  She  had  not  heard  from  Jerry  for  a  week, 
and  one  morning,  having  run  to  the  pillar-box  at  the 
throws,  with  some  letters  for  her  soldier  friends,  on  her 
return  she  met  Mr.  Sumption,  waving  his  arms  and 
cracking  his  joints  and  shouting  to  her  even  from  be- 
yond earshot,  that  Jerry  was  coming  home  that  evening. 

"  A  letter  came  this  morning.  Maybe  you've  got  one 
too?" 

Ivy  shook  her  head,  and  Mr.  Sumption  tried  to  dis- 
guise his  pleasure  at  being  the  only  one  to  hear. 

"  He's  a  good  boy,  Jerry — never  forgets  his  father. 
But  he  wants  to  see  you  though,  Ivy.  Maybe  you'd  come 
and  have  supper  with  us  this  evening?  " 

"  I'm  unaccountable  sorry,  but  I'm  going  up  to  Senlac 
town." 

"  That's  a  pity.    Perhaps  you'll  come  another  day  ?  " 

"  If  I've  time,  Mus'  Sumption — but  I'm  justabout 
vrothered  these  days  wud  the  harvesters  here.  Thank 
you  kindly  though,  all  the  same." 


JERRY  83 

She  had  been  sidling  away  as  she  spoke,  and  now 
walked  off  with  a  brisk  "  Good  mornun."  She  was 
sorry  to  have  to  disappoint  Mr.  Sumption,  whom  she 
liked  and  pitied;  but  there  was  no  good  letting  him 
think  she  had  any  use  for  Jerry. 

Before  going  home  she  ran  down  the  drive  to  Little 
Worge,  and  told  Polly  Sinden  she  was  at  all  costs  and 
risks  to  come  with  her  to  Senlac  that  evening. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  she  was  less  her  cheery,  placid 
self  than  usual,  and  the  evening  in  Senlac  town  was  not 
the  treat  it  might  have  been.  All  the  time  she  was 
haunted  by  a  sense  of  Jerry's  nearness — perhaps  he  had 
come  as  far  as  Lewes  by  now,  perhaps  he  was  already  in 
Sunday  Street,  perhaps  in  Senlac  itself.  What  a  fool 
she  had  been  to  tell  Mr.  Sumption  where  she  was  going! 
Her  heart  was  troubled — another  of  those  "  queer " 
aspects  of  the  situation  which  she  so  disliked.  Generally 
when  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  a  boy,  she  did  not  have 
feelings  like  these.  All  through  the  soft  August  twilight, 
when  she  and  Polly  Sinden,  in  the  clumsy  finery  of 
country  girls,  strolled  arm-in-arm  up  and  down  the 
Upper  Lake  and  the  Lower  Lake — those  two  lakes  of 
blood  which  an  old,  old  war  had  made,  giving  the  town 
its  bloody  name — and  even  afterwards,  when  having  by 
arts  known  to  themselves  acquired  two  soldiers,  they 
sat  in  the  picture  palace  with  a  khaki  arm  round  each 
tumbled  muslin  waist,  even  then  the  terror  lingered, 
haunting,  tearing,  elusive  as  a  dead  leaf  on  the  wind. 
Ivy  looked  nervously  into  the  shadows  of  the  little  pic- 
ture-hall, thinking  she  saw  Jerry's  face,  angry  and 
swarthy,  with  eyes  like  the  Forge  at  night.  .  .  .  Sup- 
pose he  had  come  after  her  to  Senlac  ...  he  certainly 
would  if  he  was  home  in  time.  Then  came  a  picture  of  a 
girl  who  was  "  done  in  "  by  her  lover.  Ivy  could  stand  it 
no  more,  and  rising  to  her  feet,  plunged  out  over  the 
people's  knees. 


84  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  That  plaace  is  lik  an  oven,"  she  said  to  the  Anzac 
corporal  who  followed  her  out.  ..."  No,  thank  you. 
I'll  go  home  wud  Polly." 

Polly  was  a  little  annoyed  that  Ivy  should  have  broken 
up  the  party  so  soon ;  but  it  certainly  was  very  hot — 
both  the  girls'  faces  were  spotted  with  sweat  and  their 
gowns  were  sticking  to  their  shoulders.  Besides,  it  would 
be  as  well  not  to  get  too  thick  with  this  Australian  chap 
now  Bill  Putland  was  writing  so  regularly.  .  .  .  Miss 
Sinden  and  Miss  Beatup  dismissed  their  escort,  and,  after 
the  proper  number  of  "  Good-by-ees,"  shouted  across 
longer  and  longer  darkness-muffled  distances,  they 
trudged  off  homewards  on  the  North  Trade. 

When  Ivy  reached  the  farm,  she  was  told  that  Jerry 
Sumption  had  called  about  eight  o'clock — on  his  way 
from  the  station,  without  even  going  first  to  leave  his 
kit-bag  at  the  Horselunges — and  that  Mrs.  Beatup  had 
had  an  unaccountable  to-do  to  git  shut  of  him. 


Having  made  up  her  mind  that  a  meeting  was  in- 
evitable, Ivy  made  no  more  efforts  to  avoid  one.  By  her 
absence  on  his  first  visit  she  had  clearly  shown  Jerry  how 
matters  stood,  and  if  he  was  fool  enough  to  come 
again  .  .  . 

He  was,  of  course.  Ivy,  unromantically  on  her  knees 
at  her  usual  business  of  scrubbing  the  kitchen  boards, 
felt  no  annoyance  at  being  so  discovered,  made  no  hasty 
grabs  at  her  rolled-up  sleeves,  or  at  the  loosening  knob 
of  her  hair.  She  would  not  have  done  so  for  a  more 
favoured  lover,  for  none  of  her  courtships  had  been  of 
the  kind  that  encourages  neatness  and  daintiness  in  ,a 
woman,  that  leads  to  curlings  and  powderings.  She 
knew  that  men  liked  her  for  her  youth  and  health  and 


JERRY  85 

bigness,  for  her  cheeriness  and  strength,  and  as  all  these 
things  were  natural  to  her  she  had  no  need  to  trouble 
herself  with  fakes. 

"  Hullo,  Jerry,"  she  said,  without  looking  up,  and  send- 
ing a  swirl  of  soapy  water  round  his  boots. 

"  Hullo,  Ivy.  Why  weren't  you  in  when  I  came  last 
night?" 

"  Because  I'd  gone  into  Senlac  wud  Polly  Sinden,  as 
your  father  ud  have  told  you,  if  you'd  done  wot  you 
should  ought  and  gone  to  him  fust." 

"  You'd  no  call  to  go  into  Senlac — not  on  the  first  night 
of  my  leave." 

"  Your  leave  doan't  matter  to  me." 

"Ivy  .  .  ." 

He  caught  her  wrist  as  she  was  dipping  the  scrubbing- 
brush  in  the  bucket,  and  she  was  forced  to  meet  his  eyes 
at  last.  She  had  tried  to  avoid  this,  staring  at  her  soap- 
suds, for  Jerry's  eyes  were  "  queer." 

"  Leave  hold  of  me,  Jerry." 

"  Not  till  you  stand  up  and  look  at  me.  I  can't  speak 
to  you  on  all  fours  like  this." 

Ivy  stood  up,  rather  wondering  at  Jerry's  power  to 
make  her  do  so.  He  was  a  small  fellow,  but  not  of  the 
stubby  built  of  Tom  or  Harry  Beatup.  On  the  contrary, 
he  was  lightly  made  as  a  dancing-master,  his  hands  and 
feet  were  small  but  very  strong,  his  face  was  small  and 
brown,  lit  by  two  large  sloe-black  eyes,  with  lashes  long 
and  curly  as  a  child's.  His  hair  was  curly  too,  in  spite 
of  its  military  cropping.  He  was  a  most  slovenly-looking 
soldier,  with  tunic  stained  and  buttons  dim,  and  puttees 
looping  grotesquely  round  his  slim,  graceful  legs. 

"If  the  M.P.'s  git  hold  of  you  ..."  began  Ivy 
jeeringly. 

"  There  ain't  any  M.P.'s  hereabouts.  I'm  on  my  leave, 
and  you're  starting  to  spoil  it  already." 


86  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Wot  have  I  got  to  do  wud  your  leave  ?  You're 
maaking  some  sort  gurt  big  mistaake,  Jerry  Sumption." 

"Maybe  you've  forgotten  that  day  at  Senlac  Fair?" 

"And  if  I  have,  wot  matter?  It  meant  naun.  You 
aun't  the  fust  lad  that's  kissed  me,  nor  the  last,  nuther." 

It  hurt  her  to  have  to  speak  so  plainly,  but  Jerry 
Sumption  must  be  put  right  at  once  on  one  or  two  im- 
portant matters  he  seemed  to  have  misunderstood.  She 
saw  his  face  go  pale  under  its  sunburn  and  she  felt  sorry 
for  him.  None  the  less,  she  stuck  to  her  harshness. 

"  I  likked  you  well  enough,  and  I  lik  you  still ;  but  if 
you  think  as  I  meant  more'n  I  did  or  said,  you're  un- 
accountable mistaaken." 

"  Ivy — come  out  of  doors  with  me.  I  can't  speak  to 
you  in  here.  When  my  heart's  full  I  want  the  wind 
blowing  round  me." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  Jerry ;  we'll  stay  where 
we  are,  surelye.  You're  hedge-born,  but  I'm  house-born, 
and  I  lik  four  walls  around  me  when  I'm  vrothered. 
Now,  lad,  doan't  that  show  you  as  we  two  cud  never 
mate  ?  " 

"  So,  I'm  vrothering  you,  am  I  ?  " 

"  Unaccountable." 

"  Reckon  I  didn't  vrother  you  when  I  clipped  you  in 
the  lane  by  the  stack  of  Slivericks." 

"  Doan't  'ee.  ..." 

His  strange  power  over  her  was  coming  back.  Look- 
ing into  his  eyes  she  seemed  to  see  strange  secrets  of 
woods,  memories  of  roads  and  stars,  and  a  light  that  was 
like  the  light  of  a  burning  wood,  such  as  she  had  once 
seen,  licking  up  from  the  west,  burning  the  little  farm 
and  the  barns.  She  was  frightened  of  Jerry,  just  as  she 
was  frightened  of  Dallington  churchyard  at  night,  or 
that  field-corner  by  Padgham,  where  strange  lights  are 
sometimes  seen.  Yet  it  was  a  fear  which  instead  of 


JERRY  87 

making  her  run,  made  her  stumble  and  droop  towards 
him,  seeking  refuge  from  terror  in  its  source.  .  .  . 

He  pushed  her  away. 

"  Reckon  you'll  be  kissing  another  lad  to-night." 

She  felt  flustered  and  miserable. 

"  You're  a  lamentable  trial  to  me,  Jerry." 

"Why?  'Cos  I've  kissed  you?  It's  nothing.  I'll  be 
kissing  another  girl  to-night." 

"  You're  a  valiant  feller." 

"  Ain't  I  ?    You  think  the  world  of  me,  Ivy  Beatup." 

"  Do  I  ?  That's  news.  Now  doan't  start  it  all  over 
again.  I  hear  mother  coming." 

Mrs.  Beatup's  step  creaked  outside,  and  Jerry  scowled 
at  the  door.  The  next  moment  he  was  astride  the 
window-sill,  a  queer  furtive  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  aun't  going  out  lik  that,  surelye !  I'm  ashamed 
of  you.  Stay  and  spik  to  mother  like  a  Christian." 

But  he  had  swung  his  leg  over,  and  siid  into  the  yard. 
She  heard  him  run  off,  with  padding  footsteps  like  a 
beast. 

8 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  A  thick  yellow  haze  swam 
over  the  fields,  and  there  was  a  faint  autumnal  scent  in 
the  hedges,  mixed  of  leaves  and  earth.  The  grain-fields 
still  smelt  of  summer,  with  the  baking  glumes  and  the 
white,  cracked  ground.  Only  a  few  had  been  cut — the 
winter  sowings  at  Egypt  and  Bucksteep ;  the  Volunteer 
Field  and  the  Street  Field  at  Worge  still  carried  their 
crops,  chaffy  and  nutty,  preyed  on  by  conies.  They 
should  have  been  cut  last  week,  but  Mus'  Beatup  had 
not  been  himself  on  Friday  and  Saturday,  and  Juglery 
had  a  bad  leg,  and  Harry  had  gone  to  Hailsham  Fair. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock  church  and  chapel  goers  began 
to  dribble  down  the  lane  to  Brownbread  Street,  while  a 


88  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

few  strayed  into  the  Bethel,  which  looked  a  little  less 
gaunt  with  its  door  open  to  the  sunshine  and  old  Grand- 
father Hubble  sitting  in  it  with  the  collecting-plate  on 
his  knees.  The  congregation  was  small,  but  bigger  than 
the  Particular  Baptist  sect  in  Sunday  Street.  There 
were  actually  only  two  received  members — old  Hubble 
and  his  daughter-in-law;  the  rest  were  either  members 
of  other  denominations  who  had  quarrelled  with  their 
respective  chapels,  or  else  felt  disinclined  for  the  trudge 
into  Brownbread  Street.  Bourner  came  because  the  min- 
ister had  once  been  a  blacksmith,  and  the  farmer  of 
Puddledock  came  because  he  had  once  cured  a  stallion 
of  his  that  had  lockjaw. 

Jerry  Sumption  came  because  he  hoped  Ivy  Beatup 
would  be  there.  It  was  a  vain  hope,  for  on  fine  Sundays 
the  family  at  Worge  always  went  to  church — except, 
of  course,  Mus'  Beatup,  whose  scientific  readings  had 
taught  him  the  folly  of  all  churches,  and  Mrs.  Beatup, 
who  stayed  at  home  to  cook  the  dinner.  However, 
Mr.  Sumption  had  encouraged,  if  indeed  he  had  not  in- 
spired, the  illusion  which  landed  Jerry  in  one  of  the  big 
back  pews  of  the  Bethel,  a  pew  like  a  dusty  box,  smelling 
of  wood-rot.  He  knew  that  if  he  had  been  more  candid 
Jerry  would  have  padded  off  over  the  fields  to  Brown- 
bread  Street  and  drunk  in  pernicious  heresies  of  Infant 
Baptism  and  Universal  Redemption,  while  he  stared  at 
his  sweetheart's  profile  ruddy  in  the  sunshine  which 
glowed  on  her  through  some  painted  saint.  So  he  con- 
cealed the  fact  that  the  Beatups  were  "  Church,"  weather 
permitting,  and  allowed  Jerry  to  think  he  would  have  Ivy 
to  grin  and  blink  at  during  the  sermon,  as  on  his  last 
visit,  when  the  rain  was  tinkling  in  the  chapel  gutters. 

Finding  himself  sold,  Jerry  was  inclined  to  sulk. 
Luckily  he  did  not  suspect  his  father,  or  he  would  have 
got  up  and  walked  out.  The  service  was  nearly  half 


JERRY  89 

finished  before  he  gave  up  hope;  that  is  to  say,,  the 
sermon  had  begun,  and  the  congregation  had  subsided 
into  its  various  compartments,  so  that  anyone  coming 
in  would  have  seen  no  one  but  Mr.  Sumption,  like  a  big 
crow  in  his  Sunday  blacks,  shouting  from  the  pulpit  at 
two  rows  of  coffin-like  pews.  Jerry  opened  the  door  of 
his,  so  that  he  could  look  out  of  the  chapel  door,  which 
stood  open,  and  see  the  dull  blue  sky  above  the  fields  of 
Puddledock,  and  in  the  foreground  the  neglected  church- 
yard of  the  Bethel,  with  the  tombstones  leaning  this  way 
and  that. 

A  heavy  sickness  of  heart  fell  on  him,  sitting  there  in 
the  rot-smelling  pew,  with  his  arms  folded  over  his  chest 
and  his  shoulders  shrugged  to  his  ears.  He  felt  caught 
in  his  love  for  Ivy  Beatup  like  an  animal  in  a  trap, 
frantic,  struggling,  wounding  himself  with  his  struggles. 
If  she  did  not  want  him,  why  wouldn't  she  let  him  go? 
.  .  .  Lord !  he  would  never  forget  her  that  day  at  Senlac 
Fair,  with  her  cheeks  red  as  the  pimpernel  and  her  eyes 
like  the  big  twilight  stars,  and  her  hair  blowing  about 
them  as  they  kissed.  ...  If  she  had  not  meant  it, 
why  had  she  done  it?  If  she  had  not  wanted  his  heart, 
why  had  she  taken  it  and  bruised  it  so?  He  did  not 
please  her.  Why?  He  had  pleased  other  girls;  and 
now  he  was  in  uniform  .  .  .  that  ought  to  please  her. 
He  remembered  how  she  had  made  him  jealous  when 
she  spoke  of  her  soldier  friends.  Well,  now  he  was  a 
soldier  too — leading  a  damned  life  partly  for  her  sake 
.  .  .  that  ought  to  please  her. 

In  the  Bethel  yard  rank  weeds  were  growing,  clump- 
ing round  the  tombstones,  thickening  the  grass  with 
their  fat  stalks  and  wide  milk-bleeding  leaves.  They 
were  hot  in  the  sun,  and  the  smell  of  them  crept  into  the 
Bethel  and  found  its  place  in  the  miasma  of  wood-rot 
and  Sunday  clothes  and  plaster  and  stale  lamp-oil  .  .  . 


90  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

the  smell  of  pignut  stewing  in  the  sun,  of  the  burdock 
and  the  thick  fog-weed,  the  plantain,  the  nettle,  the 
dandelion.  The  chapel  weeds  seemed  to  give  Jerry  an 
answer  to  his  question.  He  did  not  please  Ivy  because 
he  was  the  gipsy-woman's  son,  no  less  a  weed  because 
he  grew  in  a  chapel  yard.  The  hedge-born  could  not 
please  the  house-born,  as  she  had  said — though  for  that 
matter  he  had  been  born  in  a  bed  like  any  Christian, 
in  that  little  room  above  the  Forge  at  Bethersden,  which 
he  could  dimly  remember,  with  its  view  down  three  cross- 
roads. 

He  clenched  his  small  hard  fists,  and  stared  scowling 
out  towards  the  sun-swamped  fields  of  the  horizon.  He 
would  punish  Ivy  Beatup  for  her  cruelty,  for  having 
trodden  on  the  chapel  weed.  He  would  make  her  suffer — 
if  he  could,  for  she  was  tough  and  lusty  as  an  oak.  He 
found  himself  hating  her  for  her  sturdy  cheerfulness — 
for  the  shape  of  her  face,  with  the  hard,  round  cheeks 
and  pointed  chin — for  her  lips  which  were  warm  when 
her  heart  was  cold.  .  .  . 

A  loud  thump  on  the  pulpit  woke  him  out  of  his 
thoughts.  His  father  had  noticed  his  abstraction  for 
some  time,  and  chose  this  way  of  rousing  him.  From 
his  vantage  he  could  see  into  all  the  separate  cells  of  his 
congregation,  and  if  he  noticed  anyone  nodding  or  moon- 
ing or  reading  his  Bible  for  solace,  he  made  haste  to  re- 
call him  to  a  proper  sense  of  his  surroundings.  He  now 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  an  eschatological  trump  and 
glared  at  Jerry  with  his  bright,  tragic  eyes.  He  had  a 
habit  of  drastic  personal  dealings  with  his  flock,  to  which, 
perhaps,  its  small  size  was  due.  Certainly  Ades  of  Cow- 
lease  had  never  entered  the  Bethel  door  since  Mr.  Sump- 
tion had  "  thumped  "  at  him,  and  one  or  two  others  had 
been  driven  away  in  a  like  manner.  To-day  everyone, 
even  those  whose  heads  did  not  pop  out  of  their 


JERRY  91 

pews  like  Jim-Crows,  guessed  that  the  minister  had 
"  thumped  "  at  Jerry,  for  the  minister's  Jerry  seldom 
came  through  a  service  without  being  thumped  at — 
luckily  he  did  not  much  mind  it.  "  Woa — old  'un,"  he 
mumbled  to  himself,  as  he  met  his  father's  stare,  and 
soon  luckily  came  the  hymn :  "  They  shall  gather  by 
the  river,"  which  Jerry  sang  most  tunefully,  in  a  loud, 
sweet,  not  quite  human  voice,  forgetting  all  those  sad 
thoughts  of  the  chapel  weed.  .  .  . 

But  he  remembered  them  when  he  was  walking  across 
to  the  Horselunges  with  his  father. 

"  Father,  if  I  can't  get  Ivy  Beatup,  I'll  kill  myself." 
"  For  shame,  you  ungodly  boy — to  speak  so  light  of 
losing  your  salvation  !  " 

"  Would  I  lose  my  salvation  if  I  killed  myself  ?  " 
"  Reckon  you  would.     Satan  would  get  you  at  once." 
"  I'll  kill  her,  then.    Satan  can  have  her  and  welcome." 
"  It's  you  he'd  have  if  you  killed  her." 
"  Then  he's  got  me  both  ways  ?  " 

"  Reckon  he  has,  you  sinful  good-for-nothing,  dream- 
ing in  sermon-time.  Have  done,  do,  with  your  idle  talk, 
or  Satan  will  get  me  too,  and  make  me  give  you  a  kick 
behind." 

9 

Jerry's  leave  was  not  a  happy  or  a  peaceful  one — no 
more  for  his  father  and  Ivy  Beatup  than  for  himself. 
Every  day  he  was  over  at  Worge — Ivy  had  never  met 
anyone  so  undetachable.  She  hated  herself,  too,  for 
some  temporary  capitulations.  Jerry  had  a  way  of 
making  her  faint-hearted,  so  that  she  would  be  betrayed 
into  a  kiss,  or  even  a  visit  to  the  Pictures,  with  an 
entwined  walk  home  under  the  stars.  She  wished  that 
some  other  boy — some  young  Pix  or  Viner  or  Kadwell — 
was  home  on  leave,  then  she  might  have  escaped  to  him 


92  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

from  Jerry.  Not  that  she  really  doubted  herself — she 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  did  not  want  him  and 
that  she  would  not  have  him ;  this  still  held  good,  and 
her  momentary  lapses  deceived  neither  her  nor  him.  He 
no  longer  wooed  her  ardently — contrariwise,  he  was  stiff 
and  sulky,  sullen  and  rough  when  he  kissed  her.  He 
knew  that  there  was  no  chance  for  him,  that  his  only  prey 
could  be  the  present  moment,  which  he  snatched  and 
despised. 

Mr.  Sumption,  after  one  or  two  abortive  attempts  at 
persuading  Ivy  to  take  his  boy,  tried  to  detach  Jerry 
from  the  vain  quest  which  was  spoiling  these  precious 
days. 

"  There's  many  another  girl  that  would  have  you, 
Jerry — and  a  better  match,  too,  for  a  clergyman's  son." 

"  I  know  there  is — and  I've  had  'em — and  thrown  'em 
away  again.  She's  the  only  one  I've  ever  wanted  for 
keeps." 

When  he  heard  this,  Mr.  Sumption  felt  as  if  his  heart 
would  break. 

At  last  came  the  end  of  Jerry's  leave.  It  was  starless 
dusk,  with  clouds  swagging  on  the  thundery  wind.  Pools 
and  spills  of  white  light  came  from  the  west,  making  the 
fields  look  ghostly  in  the  dripping  swale.  At  Worge  a 
scent  of  withering  corn-stalks  came  from  the  fields  where 
the  crops  had  been  cut  at  last,  and  as  Jerry  stood  in  the 
doorway  the  first  dead  leaves  of  the  year  fell  on  his 
shoulders. 

"  Come  out  with  me,  Ivy.  It's  for  the  last  time,  and 
I  hate  your  kitchen  with  the  ceiling  on  my  head,  and 
your  mother  spannelling  round." 

Ivy  was  in  a  good  humour.  The  joy  of  freedom  was 
already  upon  her — she  felt  confident,  and  knew  that 
there  would  be  no  lapses  this  evening.  So  she  put  a 
shawl  over  her  head  and  went  out  with  him.  They 


JERRY  93 

passed  through  the  yard  and  the  orchard  into  the  grass- 
fields  by  Forges  Wood. 

The  field  was  tangled  and  soggy,  full  of  coarse,  sour 
grass.  In  the  dip  of  it,  by  the  wood's  edge,  toadstools 
spread  dim  tents,  or  squashed  invisibly  underfoot,  as 
the  twilight  drank  up  all  colours  save  white  and  grey. 

"  I've  trod  on  a  filthy  toadstool,  and  my  foot's  all 
over  scum,"  said  Ivy,  rubbing  her  shoe  in  the  grass. 
"  Let's  git  through  the  he'adge,  Jerry,  into  the  dry 
stubble." 

"  This  is  a  better  place  to  say  good-bye." 

"  We'll  say  good-bye  in  the  house.  Now,  none  of  your 
nonsense,  Jerry  Sumption  " — as  he  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist. 

"  But  it's  my  last  evening." 

"  Well,  I've  come  for  a  walk.  Wot  more  d'you  want? 
I'm  naun  for  cuddling,  if  that's  wot  you're  after.  I'll 
give  you  a  kiss,  full  and  fair,  when  we  say  good-bye  in 
the  house,  but  there's  to  be  no  lovering  under  headges." 

"  You've  been  unkind  all  along.  You've  spoilt  my 
leave." 

"  That's  your  own  fault,  surelye.  I've  bin  straight 
wud  you." 

He  laughed  bitterly.  Then  his  laugh  broke  into  a  gipsy 
whine. 

"  Ivy,  are  you  sure — quite  sure  you'll  never  love  me  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure — as  I've  told  you  a  dunnamany  times." 

"  But  I  don't  mean  now  ...  some  day  .    .    .  Ivy?" 

In  the  dusk  his  face  showed  white  as  the  toadstools  at 
her  feet,  but  she  stood  firm,  for  his  sake  as  well  as  her 
own. 

"  It's  no  use  talking  about  '  some  day ' — I  tell  you 
it's  never." 

"  Never ! — and  you've  let  me  hold  you  and  kiss 
you  ..." 


94  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Only  now  and  then — saum  as  I'd  let  any  nice  lad." 

His  eyes  blazed. 

"  You  little  bitch !  " 

"  Mind  your  words,  my  boy — and  leave  hoald  of  my 
arm,  and  come  into  the  next  field,  or  I'll  git  hoame." 

But  he  did  not  move,  and  his  grip  on  her  arm 
tightened. 

"  I  want  you.  I  reckon  you  don't  know  what  that 
means  when  I  say  I  want  you,  or  you  wouldn't  be  so 
damn  cruel.  Ivy,  I  can't  leave  you  like  this.  I  can't 
go  back  to  camp  knowing  I'm  just  nothing  to  you.  You 
must  give  me  some  sort  of  hope.  It's  not  fair  to  have 
led  me  on " 

"  I  never  led  you  on " 

Her  limbs  were  shaking.  An  unaccountable  terror  had 
seized  her — a  terror  of  him,  with  his  hot,  gripping  hand 
and  blazing  eyes,  of  the  field  so  dim  and  sour,  its  grass 
scummy  with  the  spilth  of  trampled  toadstools,  of  the 
wood  close  by  with  its  spindled  ashes  and  clumping 
oaks.  .  .  . 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  in  a  weak  frightened 
voice. 

For  answer  he  pulled  her  into  his  arms,  and  held  her 
with  her  breast  bruised  against  his. 

"  I  shan't  let  you  go — I'll  never  let  you  go.  Come 
into  the  wood,  Ivy.  Don't  be  afraid  ...  I  love  you. 
.  .  .  Come  into  the  wood — there's  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  worlds." 

He  tried  to  pick  her  up  and  carry  her,  but  she  struggled 
desperately  and  broke  free. 

"  This  has  justabout  finished  it  all,  Jerry  Sumption. 
You're  a  beast — I'll  never  let  you  come  nigh  me  agaun. 
You've  a-done  for  yourself.  I've  bin  good  to  you  and 
straight  wud  you,  and  I'd  have  gone  on  being  friends ; 
but  now  I've  a-done  wud  you  for  good." 


JERRY  95 

Her  voice  broke  with  rage,  and  she  turned  to  run  home. 
But  he  grabbed  her  again,  and  this  time  she  could  not 
escape.  He  was  a  small  man,  and  she  was  a  big  whack- 
ing girl;  but  madness  was  in  him,  and  his  arms  were 
like  iron  clamps. 

"  You  shan't  get  shut  of  me  like  that.  I  tell  you  I 
mean  to  have  you  .  .  .  and  wot's  more  I'll  make  you 
have  me.  I'll  break  your  pride — I'll  make  you  want  to 
have  me,  ask  me  to  take  you." 

Ivy  screamed. 

"  Scream  away.  No  one  ull  hear.  I've  got  you,  and 
I'm  damned  if  I  let  you  go  till  I  please.  .  .  .  To-morrow 
you'll  be  on  your  knees,  begging  me  to  take  you  and 
save  you." 

He  clapped  his  hand  over  her  mouth,  and  forced  back 
her  head,  kissing  her  strained  and  aching  neck  till  she 
screamed  with  pain  as  well  as  with  fright.  Her  cries 
were  stilled  under  his  palm,  her  head  swam,  her  strength 
was  leaving  her  .  .  .  she  was  down  on  one  knee  .  .  . 
then  suddenly,  she  could  never  remember  how,  she  was 
free,  and  running,  running  as  she  had  never  run  before, 
her  breath  sobbing  in  her  throat — across  the  field  of  the 
toadstools  and  sour  grass,  away  from  the  shadow  of 
Forges  Wood,  in  the  orchard,  to  see  the  gable  of  Worge 
rising  against  the  pewter-grey  of  the  clouds  that  hid 
the  moon. 

At  the  orchard  edge  she  had  the  sense  to  stop  and  tidy 
herself.  There  was  no  longer  any  fear  of  pursuit — if 
indeed  she  had  ever  been  pursued.  She  had  dropped 
her  shawl  in  the  field,  her  blouse  was  torn  open  at  the 
neck,  her  hair  was  down  on  her  shoulders,  and  her  face 
all  blotched  with  excitement  and  tears.  Also,  a  new 
experience,  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and  her 
shaking  hands  could  scarcely  fasten  her  blouse  and  twist 
up  her  hair. 


96  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  You  beast !  "  she  sobbed,  as  she  fumbled ;  "  you  beast ! 
You  dirty  gipsy !  " 

Then  an  unaccountable  longing  seized  her  for  her 
mother — she  longed  to  throw  her  arms  round  her 
mother's  neck  and  cry  upon  her  shoulder.  With  a  little 
plaintive  moan  she  started  off  again  for  the  house,  but 
by  the  time  she  reached  the  doorstep  the  craving  had 
passed. 

10 

For  half  an  hour  after  Ivy  left  him,  Jerry  lay  on  his 
face  in  Forges  Wood,  motionless  save  every  now  and 
then  for  a  quiver  of  his  shoulders.  Over  him  the  boughs 
of  the  ash-trees  cracked  and  sighed,  under  him  the 
trodden  leaves  rustled  creepingly.  He  felt  them  cold 
and  moist  against  his  cheek,  with  the  clammy  mould  of 
nettles,  weeds  that  were  trampled  and  dead.  His  heart 
in  him  was  dead — cold,  heavy  and  sodden  as  a  piece  of 
rain-soaked  earth.  The  fire  in  him  was  out — it  had 
driven  him  mad  and  died.  By  his  short  madness, 
scarcely  five  minutes  long,  he  had  lost  Ivy  for  ever.  She 
was  gone  as  the  summer  was  gone  from  the  woods,  but, 
unlike  the  summer,  she  would  never  come  back.  A  sour, 
eternal  autumn  lay  before  him,  sour  as  the  grass  and 
toadstools  of  Forges  Field,  eternal  as  the  blind,  creeping 
force  from  which  toadstools  are  spawned  into  fields  and 
poor  men's  hearts. 

At  last  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  stumbled  off,  plunging 
into  the  thickets  of  Forges  Wood,  through  the  ash-plats 
and  the  oak-scrub.  Scarcely  realising  what  he  was  doing, 
he  forced  his  way  out  of  the  wood,  through  its  hedge  of 
brambled  wattles,  into  the  lane.  The  pewterish  sky  hung 
low  over  the  hedges,  and  in  its  dull  glimmer  he  could  see 
the  road  under  his  feet.  He  soon  clambered  out  of  the 
lane,  pushing  through  the  hedge  into  the  fields  of  Padg- 


JERRY  97 

ham.  To  eastward  lay  the  thick,  black  woods  of  Furnace- 
field,  and  the  cry  of  an  owl  came  out  of  them,  plaintively. 

Jerry  wandered  in  the  fields  till  dawn,  his  heart  cold 
and  heavy  as  a  clod,  though  now  and  then  little  crawls 
of  misery  went  into  it,  like  a  live  thing  creeping  into  the 
earth.  He  had  lost  Ivy  for  ever  .  .  .  his  own  madness — 
which  was  gone — had  taken  her  from  him  .  .  .  she  was 
gone,  as  the  summer  was  gone  from  the  woods.  .  .  . 

He  came  nearly  as  far  south  as  Hazard's  Green,  but 
mostly  roamed  in  his  own  tracks,  prowling  the  barns  of 
Burntkitchen.  Then,  when  a  thin,  greenish  light  shone 
like  mould  on  the  pewtered  sky,  a  sudden  childish  crav- 
ing came  to  him,  the  same  that  had  come  to  Ivy  in  the 
orchard.  As  she  had  wanted  her  mother  in  her  fright 
and  misery,  so  he  wanted  his  father,  and  ran  home. 


II 

A  light  was  burning  at  the  Horselunges,  but  the  cold 
lamp  of  dawn  shone  on  Jerry  as  he  stood  fumbling  in 
the  doorway,  then,  finding  the  door  unlocked,  crept  in. 
A  footstep  creaked  in  his  father's  room,  and  the  next 
minute  the  door  was  flung  open  and  the  minister  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  blocked  against  the  light,  loom- 
ing, monstrous,  like  a  huge  black  Satan. 

"  WhereVe  you  been  ?  " 

"  In  the  woods." 

Jerry's  teeth  were  chattering  as  his  father  took  him 
by  the  arm  and  pulled  him  into  then-corn.  A  fire  was 
burning  on  the  hearth,  with  the  old,  old  cat  purring 
squeakily  before  it,  while  the  broken- winged  thrush, 
which  Mr.  Sumption  had  forgotten  to  cover  up  for  the 
night,  hopped  to  and  fro,  twittering  its  best  effort  at  a 
song. 

"  Oh,  may  the  Lord  forgive  you,  you  scamp,"  groaned 


98  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

the  minister,  as  Jerry  fell  crumpled  on  the  sofa.  His 
boots  and  uniform  were  caked  with  leaf-mould  and  clay, 
his  hair  was  full  of  leaves  and  mud  and  his  face  was 
streaked  with  dirty  wet. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  No." 

There  was  a  pot  of  something  on  the  fire,  but  it  was 
just  as  well  that  Jerry  was  not  hungry,  for  it  had  been 
burnt  to  a  cinder  long  ago. 

"  I've  been  sitting  up  for  you  all  night,"  said  Mr. 
Sumption.  "  When  you  didn't  come  in,  I  went  over  to, 
Worge,  and  Ivy  said  you'd  been  out  with  her,  but  had 
gone  off  by  yourself,  she  didn't  know  where.  She's  a 
kind  girl,  and  told  me  not  to  worry." 

"  Father — I've  lost  her  for  ever." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  said  the  words  aloud,  and 
their  wretchedness  swept  over  him,  breaking  his  spirit, 
so  that  he  began  to  cry. 

"  I've  lost  her  ...  I  was  mad  .   .   .  and  she's  gone." 

Mr.  Sumption  stood  staring  at  the  small,  slight  figure 
on  the  sofa,  lying  with  its  dirty  face  turned  away,  its 
back  showing  him  the  split  tunic  of  a  soldier  of  the  King. 
His  bowels  yearned  towards  the  son  of  the  woman  from 
Ihornden,  and  his  rage  switched  violently  from  Jerry 
to  the  cause  of  his  grief. 

"  Drat  the  girl !  Drat  the  slut !  What  is  she  after, 
despising  her  betters?  She's  led  you  on — she's  played 
with  you.  Don't  trouble  about  her,  Jerry,  my  boy.  She 
isn't  worth  it." 

"  I  love  her,"  gasped  Jerry — "  and  I've  lost  her.  It's 
my  own  fault.  I  went  mad.  I  frightened  her.  .  .  . 
Father,  I'm  a  beast — I  reckon  Satan's  got  me." 

Mr.  Sumption  patted  his  shoulder. 

"  I  reckon  Satan's  got  me,"  moaned  the  boy — "  or  why 
did  I  go  wild  like  that  ?  " 


JERRY  99 

"  Satan  can't  hurt  the  elect." 

"  What's  that  to  me  ?  I  reckon  I'm  none  of  your  elect. 
I'm  just  a  poor  boy  who's  done  for  himself." 

Mr.  Sumption  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  him,  and 
began  to  pray. 

"  O  Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  sore  trial  in  this  son 
of  mine,  and  now  terrible  doubts  are  in  my  soul  as  to 
whether  he  is  one  of  the  elect  for  whom  Jesus  died.  O 
Lord,  he's  my  flesh  and  bone,  and  the  flesh  and  bone  of 
my  dear  wife  who's  dead,  and  yet  it  looks  as  if  Satan 
had  got  him.  O  Lord,  save  my  son  from  the  lion  and 
my  darling  from  the  power  of  the  dog,  from  the  dreadful 
day  that  shall  burn  like  an  oven,  and  the  furnace  of  pitch 
and  tow.  ..." 

"  Father,  have  done,  do — you  give  me  the  creeps." 

"  I'm  praying  for  your  soul,  ungrateful  child." 

"  Let  my  soul  be — I'm  tired  to  death." 

Indeed  a  grey  shade  of  utter  weariness  had  crept  into 
his  skin,  so  that  his  face  looked  ghastly  in  the  morning 
twilight  fighting  round  the  lamp.  Mr.  Sumption,  who 
had  stood  up,  knelt  down  again,  and  took  off  Jerry's 
boots. 

"  Have  a  sleep  then,  my  laddie — there  on  the  sofy. 
It's  scarce  worth  going  to  bed.  Besides,  you'd  have  to 
clean  yourself  first." 

"  You  won't  leave  me,  father — you'll  stay  along  of 
me?" 

"  I'll  stay  along  of  you  and  pray  quiet." 

Jerry  gave  a  grunt,  and  drew  up  his  knees  to  his  chin, 
like  some  animal  rolling  itself  for  sleep.  Mr.  Sumption 
knelt  beside  him  and  continued  his  prayer : 

"  O  Lord,  Thou  hast  a  son,  and  doesn't  Thou  know 
what  I  feel  about  this  wretched  boy  of  mine?  Lord, 
give  me  a  token  that  he  is  not  predestined  to  everlasting 
death;  save  him  from  the  snares  of  hell,  in  which  he 


100  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

seems  tangled  like  a  bird  in  the  snare  of  the  fowler  ..." 
"  Oh,  father,  do  pray  cheerful,"  groaned  Jerry. 
But    praying    cheerful    was    quite    beyond    the    poor 
father's  powers,  never  remarkable  in  this  direction  at 
the  best  of  times.     Allv  he  could  do  was  to  sing,  "  Let 
Christian  faith  and  hope  dispel  the  fears  of  guilt  and 
woe,"  till  Jerry  had  fallen  asleep. 


12 

Three  hours  later  he  woke,  to  find  Mrs.  Hubble's  big 
wooden  washtub  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"  Up  you  get,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sumption,  "  and 
into  that  bath,  and  I'll  take  your  clothes  down  to  be 
cleaned  and  mended  before  you  go  to  the  station." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  the  station." 

"  You're  going  there  two  hours  from  now,  or  you 
won't  be  in  Waterheel  to-night." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  in  Waterheel  ever  again." 

But  Mr.  Sumption  was  not  having  any  nonsense.  A 
large  hairy  paw  like  a  gorilla's  shot  out  and  swung  Jerry 
by  the  collar  on  to  the  floor.  "  Now  strip,  you  ungodly 
good-for-nothing,  and  I'll  send  you  out  looking  like  a 
clergyman's  son." 

Jerry,  groaning  and  moaning  to  himself,  got  into  the 
bath,  while  Mr.  Sumption  took  his  dirty  bundle  of 
clothes  down  to  Mrs.  Hubble's  kitchen,  where  a  long  and 
noisy  argument  followed  on  her  abilities  to  make  bricks 
without  straw,  as  she  called  his  request  to  make  his  son 
look  decent.  He  returned  to  the  study  to  find  Jerry  less 
stiff  in  the  joints,  but  growing  every  minute  more  defiant 
and  miserable  as  the  steaming  water  cleared  the  fogs  of 
sleep  from  his  brain. 

"  I'm  not  going  back  to  camp.  I'd  die  if  I  was  to  go 
there — with  Ivy  lost.  It  was  bad  enough  when  I  had 


JERRY  101 

her  to  think  of  and  all But  now  ...  I'd  justabout 

break  my  heart." 

"  Maybe  after  a  time  you  can  write  to  her  again " 

"  I  can't,  I  tell  you.  You  don't  understand.  I've 
lost  her  for  ever.  I  frightened  her — I  made  her  scream." 

"  You're  a  beast,"  said  his  father. 

"  Reckon  I  am,  and  reckon  you're  treating  me  like  one." 

"If  you  stay  behind,  they'll  nab  you  for  an  absentee." 

"  I  don't  care  if  they  do.  I'd  sooner  be  locked  up, 
than  a  soldier  any  more." 

"  For  shame,  boy !  " 

"Well,  how'd  you  like  to  be  a  soldier? — sworn  at  all 
day  by  bloody  sergeants,  and  always  fatigue  and  C.B. 
I'm  fed  up,  I  tell  you,  and  I'm  not  going  back." 

"  You'll  go  back,  if  I  have  to  pull  you  all  the  way  by 
the  ears." 

"  You're  the  cruellest  father  I  ever  heard  of." 

Mr.  Sumption  lost  his  temper,  and  cuffed  Jerry's  head 
as  he  sat  in  the  tub.  Luckily  the  boy's  defiance  had  been 
only  the  false  flare  of  damp  spirits,  and  instead  of  receiv- 
ing the  blow  with  an  explosion  of  anger,  he  was  merely 
cowed  by  it.  Whereat  Mr.  Sumption's  heart  melted, 
and  he  saw  the  piteousness  of  this  poor  little  soldier, 
whose  heart  was  black  with  some  evil  beyond  his 
help. 

The  rest  of  the  time  passed  amicably,  till  Mrs.  Hubble, 
with  many  contemptuous  sniffs,  brought  up  Jerry's  uni- 
form brushed  and  mended,  and  after  he  was  dressed  he 
did  not  look  so  bad,  especially  as  the  bath  had  had  the 
humiliating  result  of  making  his  skin  look  several  shades 
lighter. 

Breakfast  followed,  and  afterwards  he  and  his  father 
set  out  for  Senlac  Station,  taking  the  longer  North  Road 
by  Woods  Corner  and  Darwell  Hole,  instead  of  that 
shorter,  more  dangerous,  way  past  the  gate  of  Worge. 


102  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

It  was  a  morning  of  clear,  golden  distances,  with  pillars 
and  towers  and  arches  of  cloud  moving  solemnly  before 
the  wind  across  a  borage-blue  sky.  Drops  of  dew  fell 
from  the  trees  on  the  backs  of  the  two  men,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  the  smell  of  earth  and  wet  leaves,  and  that 
faint  mocking  smell  of  spring  which  sometimes  comes 
in  autumn. 

As  they  tramped  along  the  North  Road,  away  from 
the  Obelisk  by  Lobden's  House,  which  allows  a  Dalling- 
ton  man  to  see  his  village  for  miles  after  he  has  left  it, 
Mr.  Sumption  spoke  very  patiently  and  kindly  to  his  son. 

"  Keep  good  and  straight,"  he  said,  "  for  you're  a  good 
woman's  son,  and  some  day  you'll  find  a  woman  whom 
you'll  love  as  I  loved  your  mother.  May  she  be  to  you 
all  that  your  mother  was  to  me,  and  may  you  keep  her 
longer.  But  don't  go  running  after  strange  women,  or 
think  to  forget  love  in  wantonness.  One  day,  if  you  trust 
the  Lord,  you'll  meet  a  girl  that  has  been  worth  keeping 
good  for,  that  you'll  find  lovelier  than  Ivy  Beatup,  and 
ull  think  herself  honoured  to  marry  a  clergyman's  son." 

"  Clergyman's  son  ..."  murmured  Jerry,  in  tones 
that  made  Mr.  Sumption  swoop  round  on  him  with  up- 
lifted hand,  to  see  a  look  on  his  face  that  made  him 
thrust  it  back  into  his  pocket. 

His  eyes  were  still  full  of  his  mysterious  trouble,  but 
he  did  not  speak  of  it  so  much.  He  just  plodded  on 
beside  his  father  like  a  calf  to  slaughter,  and  at  last  they 
came  to  Senlac  Town,  with  the  houses  like  barley-stacks 
in  the  sunshine.  They  were  early,  and  had  half  an  hour 
to  wait  at  the  station.  A  train  had  just  come  in,  and  as 
they  crossed  the  bridge  they  suddenly  met  Tom  Beatup. 

"  Tom !  "  cried  the  minister,  cracking  his  joints  with 
delight.  "  Who'd  have  thought  to  meet  you !  I'd  no 
idea  you  were  coming  home." 

"  Nor  had  I  till  yesterday — seven  days'  leave  before 
I  go  to  France.  I  sent  off  a  telegram,  but  I  reckon  it 


JERRY  103 

was  too  late  for  them  to  get  it  last  night.  Hullo,  Jerry ! 
Enjoyed  yourself  ?  " 

"  Unaccountable,"  said  Jerry  with  a  leer. 

"  Wait  for  me,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Sumption,  "  and  we'll 
walk  home  together.  I  shan't  be  more  than  twenty 
minutes  or  so." 

"  I'm  justabout  sorry,  but  I  must  git  off  this  wunst. 
Reckon  I'll  see  you  again  soon." 

"  Come  round  to  the  Horselunges  one  evening." 

"  I  will,  surelye " — and  Tom  was  off,  whistling 
"  Sussex  by  the  Sea." 

It  seemed  to  Mr.  Sumption  that  he  looked  a  bigger, 
older  man  than  the  Tom  Beatup  of  five  months  ago. 
He  seemed  to  have  grown  and  filled  out,  he  had  lost  his 
yokel  shuffle,  and  his  uniform  was  smart  and  neat.  The 
minister  glanced  down  at  Jerry,  who  stood  beside  him, 
small,  untidy,  cowed  and  furtive.  Jerry  undoubtedly 
did  not  look  his  best  in  uniform — it  seemed  to  exaggerate 
the  worst  of  those  gipsy  characteristics  which  he  had 
inherited  from  the  Rossarmescroes  or  Hearns.  Now, 
in  civvies  he  used  not  to  look  so  bad — he  was  a  well-made, 
graceful  little  chap.  .  .  . 

"  Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Sumption,  "  why  can't  you  look  like 
Tom  Beatup  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  it's  because  I'm  Jerry  Sumption — the  clergy- 
man's son." 

And  again  there  was  that  look  on  his  face  which  pre- 
vented retaliation. 

13 

In  the  old  days  it  used  to  take  Tom  a  good  couple  of 
hours  to  walk  from  Senlac  to  Sunday  Street — but  then, 
he  had  generally  been  behind  a  drove  of  lazy  tups  or 
heifers,  or  silly  scattering  sheep.  To-day  he  swung 
smartly  along,  scarcely  feeling  the  weight  of  his  kit-bag, 
whistling  as  he  walked.  It  was  good  to  feel  the  soft  thick 


104  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

fanning  of  the  Sussex  air,  so  different  from  the  keen 
Derbyshire  wind,  with  its  smell  of  bilberries  and  slaty 
earth;  to  see  the  old  places  along  the  North  Trade — 
Whitelands,  Park  Gate,  Burntkitchen,  and  then,  when  he 
came  to  the  throws,  that  wide  sudden  view  of  the  country 
bounded  by  the  Four  Roads,  swamped  in  hazy  sunshine, 
with  the  trickle  of  lanes  and  the  twist  of  the  rough, 
blotched  hedges,  and  the  pale  patches  of  the  stubble,  and 
the  low  clouds  sailing  over  it  from  Cross-in-Hand.  He 
walked  through  Brownbread  Street,  empty  save  for  the 
waggon-team  that  drowsed  outside  the  George,  silent  save 
for  the  hum  of  children's  voices  in  the  school.  Then  he 
came  to  Font's  Green,  where  the  lane  to  Sunday  Street 
meets  the  East  Road.  The  hops  were  being  picked  in  the 
low  sheltered  fields  by  Slivericks  Wood,  and  the  smoke 
of  the  drying  furnace  streamed  out  of  the  cowl  of  the 
oasthouse  at  the  throws,  while  all  the  air  seemed  heavy 
with  the  sweet,  sleepy  scent  of  stripping  bines. 

He  had  meant,  traitorously,  to  call  at  the  shop  before 
he  went  home ;  but  just  as  he  came  to  the  willow-pond, 
a  small  dusty  figure  ran  out  of  the  hedge,  and  seized  him 
round  the  waist. 

"Hullo,  Tom!" 

"  Hullo,  Zacky !    Wot  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  bin  to  school — I  couldn't  go  when  I  heard 
you  wur  coming.  Mother  got  your  telegram  this  mornun, 
and  she  wur  sure  it  wur  to  say  as  you  wur  killed." 

"  Was  she  pleased  when  she  found  it  wasn't  ?  " 

"  Unaccountable.  But  she'd  nigh  cried  her  eyes  out 
first,  and  told  Ivy  and  Nell  as  something  tarr'ble  had 
happened  to  you,  afore  they  found  as  she'd  never  opened 
the  telegram." 

"  I'll  write  a  letter  next  time,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  I 
never  knew  for  sure  till  yesterday  that  I'd  be  gitting 
leave  so  soon." 


JERRY  105 

He  did  not  scold  Zacky  for  having  stayed  away  from 
school.  It  was  a  relief  not  to  have  to  exercise  quasi- 
paternal  authority  any  more,  but  just  to  take  the  truant's 
hand  and  walk  with  him  to  Worge  Gate — where  Mus' 
Beatup  was  standing  with  his  gun,  having  seen  Tom  in 
the  distance  from  Fodder's  Field,  where  the  conies  are, 
while  Mrs.  Beatup  was  running  down  the  drive  from  the 
house,  her  apron  blowing  before  her  like  a  sail. 

"  Here  you  are,  my  boy,"  said  Mus'  Beatup  senten- 
tiously,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Come  to  see 
how  we're  gitting  on  now  you've  left  us.  The  oald  farm's 
standing  yit — the  oald  farm's  standing  yit." 

"  And  looks  valiant,"  said  Tom,  grinning,  and  kissing 
his  mother. 

"  Not  so  valiant  as  it  ud  look  if  there  wurn't  no  war 
on." 

"  Maybe — that  cud  be  said  of  most  of  us." 

"  Not  of  you,  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  I  never  saw 
you  look  praaperer  than  to-day." 

"  Oh,  I'm  in  splendid  heart — eat  till  I'm  fit  to  bust." 

"  You  wear  your  cap  like  Bill  Putland,"  said  Zacky. 
"  It  maakes  you  look  different-like." 

Tom's  cap  indeed  had  a  rakish  tilt  over  one  ear, 
though  he  did  not  profess  to  imitate  Bill  Putland's 
jauntiness. 

"  Maybe  old  Bill  ull  git  a  bit  of  leave  in  a  week  or  two. 
I  see  Jerry  Sumption's  gone  back  to-day.  I  met  him  and 
minister  at  the  station." 

Mrs.  Beatup  gave  a  snort. 

"  And  unaccountable  glad  I  am  to  see  the  last  of  Gipsy 
Jerry;  he's  justabout  plagued  Ivy  to  death  all  the  time 
he's  bin  here.  She  says  she's  shut  of  him,  and  I  hope  to 
goodness  she  means  it." 

"  Jerry  shud  never  have  gone  fur  a  soldier,"  said  Tom. 
"  He's  got  no  praaper  ideas  of  things,  and  is  fur  ever 


106  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

gitting  in  trouble.  Come,  mother,  let's  be  walking  up  to 
the  house  and  put  my  bag  in  the  bedroom." 

"  Wot's  in  your  bag  ?  "  asked  Zacky. 

"  Soap,  razor,  slacks,  and  one  or  two  liddle  bits  of 
things,"  said  Tom,  grinning  down  at  him  in  proud  con- 
sciousness of  two  pounds  of  Derby  rock — to  such  magnifi- 
cence had  his  sweetmeat  buying  risen  from  his  old  penn- 
'orths of  bull's-eyes. 

They  walked  up  to  the  house,  and  greetings  came  with 
Ivy  hanging  out  the  clothes,  and  Harry  toiling  over  the 
corn  accounts  in  shamefaced  arrears.  Then  his  bag  was 
unpacked,  and  presents  given  to  everybody — sweetstuff 
to  Zacky  and  Harry,  a  good  knife  to  his  father,  and  to 
his  mother  a  wonderful  handkerchief  case  with  the  arms 
of  the  Royal  Sussex  worked  in  lurid  silks ;  there  was  a 
needlebook  of  the  same  sort  for  Nell,  when  she  should 
come  home  from  school ;  and  for  Ivy  there  was  a  mother- 
o'-pearl  brooch,  and,  which  she  liked  even  better,  mes- 
sages from  a  dozen  Sussex  chaps  at  Waterheel. 

Then  as  the  family  went  back  to  its  business,  Tom, 
who  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  had  none,  slipped  out  of 
the  house,  and  jogged  quietly  down  the  drive  towards 
the  village.  There  would  be  just  time  before  dinner  to 
call  at  the  shop. 

The  blind  was  down,  for  the  sunshine  was  streaming 
in  at  the  little  leaded  window,  threatening  the  perils  of 
dissolution  to  the  sugar  mice  (made  before  the  sugar 
scarcity,  indeed,  it  must  be  confessed,  before  the  War) 
and  of  fermentation  to  the  tinned  crab.  Tom's  hand  may 
have  shaken  a  little  as  he  pulled  down  the  latch,  but 
except  for  that  his  manner  was  stout,  very  different  from 
his  sheepish  entrances  of  months  ago. 

Buzz  .  .  .  ting  .  .  .  Thyrza  looked  up  from  the  pack- 
ing-case she  was  breaking  open  behind  the  counter.  The 
next  moment  she  gave  a  little  cry.  She  had  just  been 


JERRY  107 

thinking  of  Tom  at  Waterheel,  wondering  if  it  was  his 
dinner-time  yet,  and  what  Cookie  had  put  in  the  stew; 
and  then  she  had  lifted  her  eyes  to  see  his  broad,  sun- 
burnt face  smiling  at  her  from  the  door,  with  his  hair 
curling  under  his  khaki  cap,  and  his  sturdy  figure  looking 
at  once  stronger  and  slimmer  in  its  uniform. 

"  Tom !  "  she  gasped,  and  held  out  her  hand  across 
the  counter — hoping  .  .  . 

But  he  had  gone  beyond  the  timid  daring  of  those 
days.  Before  she  knew  what  was  happening,  he  had 
marched  boldly  round  behind  the  counter  and  taken  her 
in  his  arms. 

14 

Tom's  family  gave  a  poor  reception  to  his  news  that 
this  was  "  last  leave  "  before  going  to  France. 

"  I  knew  as  that  there  telegram  meant  something 
tar'ble,"  wailed  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  It  wurn't  fur  naun  I 
cried,  Nell,  though  you  did  despise  me." 

"  I  didn't  despise  you,"  said  Nell ;  "  vou're  very  un- 
just, mother." 

"Unjust,  am  I? — wud  my  boy  going  out  to  be 
slaughtered  like  a  pig." 

"  I  aun't  going  to  be  slaughtered,  mother — no!  if  I 
know  it.  It's  I  who'll  do  the  slaughtering." 

"  You  who'd  go  swummy  at  wringing  a  cockerel's  neck. 
.  .  .  Reckon  a  German  ull  taake  some  killing — want 
more'n  a  twist  and  a  pull." 

"He'll  want  no  more'n  I've  got  to  give  him.  Now, 
doan't  you  taake  on  so,  mother — there's  naun  to  vrother 
about.  Maybe  I  woan't  be  off  so  soon  after  all — it's  only 
an  idea  that's  going  round.  And  if  I  do  go,  I  aun't 
afeard.  I've  a  feeling  as  no  harm  ull  come  to  me." 

"  And  I've  a  feeling  as  it  will.  Howsumdever  .  .  . 
I  mun  think  as  I've  got  four  children  left  .  .  .  and  a 


108  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

hoame  .  .  .  and  a  husband  " — remembering  her  bless- 
ings one  by  one. 

Mus'  Beatup  was  inclined  to  be  contemptuous. 

"Wot  fur  are  they  sending  you  out  now?  You've 
bin  training  scarce  five  month." 

"  Many  of  the  boys  git  less." 

"  Maybe  they  do,  wud  Governmunt  being  wot  it  is. 
As  if  anyone  wud  know  cudn't  see  as  it  taakes  ten  year 
to  maake  a  looker." 

"  Reckon  things  have  to  go  quicker  in  the  Army  than 
on  a  farm.  If  we  all  took  ten  years  to  git  ready,  the 
Bosches  ud  have  us  middling  soon." 

"  They'd  taake  ten  years,  too,  and  it  ud  all  go  much 
better." 

"  At  that  raate  we'd  never  have  done,  surelye." 

"  And  wot  maakes  you  think  as  we'll  ever  have  done, 
as  things  are?  .  .  .  Go  forrard  five  mile  in  a  year,  and 
it'll  be  two  hundred  years  afore  we  git  to  the  Kayser's 
royal  palace.  You  see  'em  all  fighting  around  a  farm 
as  it  wur  the  Tower  of  Lunnon — their  objective,  they  call 
it.  If  Worge  wur  an  objective  it  ud  taake  the  Germans 
fifteen  month  to  git  into  it,  and  we'd  taake  another  fifteen 
month  to  git  'em  out ;  and  then  they'd  git  in  agaun,  and 
it  ud  go  on  lik  that  till  the  plaace  wur  in  shards.  I  tell 
you  this  aun't  a  hurrying  sort  of  war,  and  ull  be  won  by 
them  wot  lives  longest." 

Tom  was  impressed.  "  Seemingly  you  know  more 
about  it  than  I  do." 

"  I  read  the  paapers,  and  reckon  I  do  a  bit  of  thinking 
as  well." 

"  Reckon  you  do.  Howsumdever,  it's  my  plaace  to 
fight  and  not  to  think — I  leave  that  to  men  lik  you." 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Mus'  Beatup  as  a  military 
tactician,  he  was  a  bit  disgusted  with  him  as  a  farmer. 
A  searching  of  the  farm  accounts  and  an  examination 


JERRY  109 

of  the  shame-faced  Harry  revealed  a  state  of  affairs  even 
more  depressing  than  he  had  looked  for.  The  harvest 
had  been  mismanaged,  the  oats  having  been  allowed  to 
stand  too  long,  and  a  quantity  of  seed  had  been  lost. 
The  blight  had  got  into  the  hops  owing  to  insufficient 
spraying,  and  two  sheep  had  died  of  bronchitis.  Tom 
was  at  first  inclined  to  be  angry.  Harry  acknowledged 
having  played  truant  on  one  or  two  important  occasions, 
though  he  insisted,  whiningly,  that  he  had  worked  "  lik 
ten  black  slaves  "  for  most  of  the  summer.  If  he  had 
always  been  on  the  spot,  the  aberrations  of  Mus'  Beatup 
and  the  laziness  and  pigheadedness  of  Elphick  and  Jug- 
lery  might  have  been  counteracted  to  a  certain  degree. 
Tom  would  have  liked  to  have  beaten  Harry,  just  to  teach 
him  the  disadvantages  of  ratting  in  harvest-time,  but  he 
was  now  oddly  loath  to  exercise  the  old  compulsory 
tyrannies.  He  saw,  too,  the  pathos  of  Harry's  youth, 
forced  to  play  watchdog  to  middle-aged  vice  and  ancient 
inefficiency. 

So,  instead  of  being  angry,  he  was  just  patient.  He 
went  out  a  good  deal  during  his  leave,  and  the  family 
whispered,  "  Thyrza  Honey  " ;  but  in  the  afternoons  and 
soft  evenings,  when  all  the  fields  were  rusty  in  the  harvest 
moon,  he  would  walk  with  Harry  over  the  farm,  and 
point  out  to  him  the  work  that  would  have  soon  to  be 
done  in  the  way  of  sowings  and  diggings,  with  never  a 
word  of  reproach  for  the  pitiable  deeds  of  the  summer. 

"  It  aun't  too  late  to  try  fur  a  catch  crop  or  two — 
harrow  some  clover  on  the  Volunteer  stubble,  and  if  you 
sow  early  and  late  red,  and  late  white,  you'll  git  cuttings 
right  on  into  June.  I  wudn't  have  potato  oats  agaun  fur 
the  Street  field — their  rootses  git  too  thick  fur  clays, 
and  they  shed  seed  unaccountable  if  you  leave  them  stand- 
ing a  day  over  their  due.  Try  Sandy  oat  this  fall — and 
Flemish  oat  is  good  in  clays,  I've  heard  tell.  And  the 


110  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

two-acre  shud  go  into  potash  next  year — wurzels  or 
swedes,  or  maybe  potatoes." 

"  I'll  never  kip  all  this  in  my  head,  Tom." 

"  You'll  justabout  have  to,  sonny.  I  tell  you  this 
farm's  your  job,  saum  as  mine's  soldiering.  I'm  going 
to  fight  fur  Worge,  and  you've  got  to  back  me  up  and 
see  as  Worge  is  kept  going  fur  me  to  fight  fur." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  surelye — but  you  must  write,  Tom, 
and  maake  me  mind  it  all.  Write  and  say,  '  This  week 
you  must  drill  the  two-acre  ' — or  '  To-morrow's  the  day 
to  start  thinning,'  or  '  Maake  a  strong  furrer  this  frost,' 
so's  I  shan't  disremember  the  lot." 

"  I'll  send  you  a  postcard  at  whiles,  to  kip  you  up  to  it ; 
but  I  shan't  be  here  to  see  how  things  are  going,  so  you'll 
have  to  trust  to  your  own  gumption.  And  doan't  go 
agaunst  faather  when  he's  sober,  fur  he's  a  clever  chap 
and  knows  wot  he's  doing;  but  when  he's  tight  doan't 
let  him  meddle,  for  he's  unaccountable  contrary  and  ud 
pot  a  harvest  just  to  spite  the  Government.  As  fur 
Juglery  and  Elphick,  they've  got  no  more  sense  nor  roots, 
so  doan't  you  ever  be  asking  wot  to  do  of  them." 

Harry  was  impressed  by  all  this  counsel.  But  perhaps 
its  real  weight  lay  in  Tom's  new  glamour,  his  khaki  uni- 
form, his  occasional  jauntiness,  his  military  slang  and 
tales  of  camp  life.  He  had  always  been  fond  of  his 
brother  and  liked  him  for  a  good  fellow ;  but  now  he 
went  a  step  further,  and  admired  him.  There  was  some- 
thing about  this  quiet,  neat,  efficient  young  soldier, 
which  had  been  lacking  in  good-natured  old  Tom,  with 
his  dirty  skin  and  sloppy  corduroys.  Without  quite 
understanding  what  it  was,  or  how  it  had  come  there, 
Harry  was  both  sensible  and  envious  of  it.  He  felt  that 
he  would  like  to  be  a  soldier  too,  wear  khaki,  carry 
mysterious  tools,  and  have  before  him  a  dim,  glorious 
adventure  called  France.  But  since  these  things  were 


JERRY  111 

not  to  be,  a  kind  of  rudimentary  hero-worship  led  him 
to  make  plans  for  "  carrying  on  "  at  home.  He  would 
not  disappoint  this  soldier  brother,  who  had  exalted  his 
work  on  the  farm  by  speaking  of  it  as  part  of  the  ad- 
venture on  which  he  was  so  much  more  glamorously 
engaged.  He  had  never  seen  it  in  that  light  before — for 
that  matter,  neither  had  Tom.  But  now  he  would  try 
to  do  his  share — back  Tom  up,  as  he  had  said.  Harry's 
nature  was  more  ardent  than  his  brother's,  more 
romantic  in  its  clay-thickened  way,  and  on  this  ardour 
and  romance  Tom  had  unconsciously  built.  There  was 
now  a  chance  of  his  memory  calling  louder  than  Senlac 
Fair  or  the  wood  by  Cade  Street. 

15 

Tom  did  not  tell  his  family  about  Thyrza  Honey  till 
the  morning  he  left  Sunday  Street.  He  knew  they  were 
curious,  but  he  felt  that  he  would  rather  face  their 
curiosity  than  their  comments.  They  were  sure  to  be 
pleased  at  the  news  from  a  material  standpoint,  but 
against  that  he  had  to  balance  the  fact  that  the  women — 
except,  perhaps,  Ivy — did  not  like  Thyrza,  and  that  his 
mother  still  looked  upon  him  as  a  little  boy,  too  young  to 
think  of  marrying.  He  had  looked  upon  himself  in  that 
light  six  months  ago — it  was  queer  how  much  older  he 
felt  now.  Surely  it  did  not  make  you  all  that  much  older 
to  have  the  sergeant  howling  at  you,  or  to  sleep  with  fifty 
men  in  a  hut,  or  to  eat  stew  out  of  a  dixey.  .  .  .  Yet,  the 
fact  remained,  that  in  April  he  had  felt  a  boy  and  in  Sep- 
tember he  felt  a  man ;  and,  more — he  was  a  man ;  for 
Thyrza  had  accepted  him  as  her  lover,  and  had  promised 
to  let  him  fulfil  his  manhood  as  her  husband. 

At  present  he  was  content  with  the  first  stage.  Each 
day  held  a  new  wonder.  Yet  he  did  nothing  more 


112  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

wonderful  than  sit  with  her  in  the  little  room  behind  the 
shop — the  sanctuary  into  which  he  had  so  often  peeped 
in  the  old  days,  wondering  what  Thyrza  thought  and  did 
there  in  the  humming  firelight,  with  her  kettle  and  her 
cat  and  her  account-books  in  which  all  the  little  traffic 
of  the  shop  was  entered  with  sucked  pencil  and  puckered 
brows. 

He  would  sit  by  her  and  hold  her  hand,  so  large  and 
soft  and  firm,  turning  it  over  and  over  in  his  own,  kissing 
it  back  and  palm.  Her  manner  was  a  little  motherly,  for 
she  was  touched  by  the  fact  that  she  was  the  first  woman 
he  had  ever  held  or  kissed,  while  her  own  experience  was 
deep  and  bitter.  She  was  older  than  he  was  too,  and,  as 
she  thought,  sharper  at  the  uptake,  though  certainly  he 
had  improved  in  this  of  late.  She  would  hold  him  in  her 
arms,  with  his  head  against  her  breast,  held  between  her 
heart  and  her  elbow,  as  she  had  for  a  few  short  minutes 
held  the  little  baby  who  died.  .  .  .  She  never  asked  her- 
self why  she  loved  him  so  much  better  than  the  big, 
strong,  hairy  Bourner,  or  than  Hearsfield,  whose  hands 
were  white  as  a  gentleman's ;  all  she  knew  was  that  she 
loved  him,  and  that  she  pitied  him  for  the  fond  no-reason 
that  he  loved  her  and  through  her  was  learning  his  first 
lessons  in  woman  and  love. 

Then  before  he  went  home  she  would  make  him  tea, 
or  supper  perhaps,  and  herself  gain  new  sweet  experience 
in  ministering  to  the  material  wants  of  the  man  whose 
spirit  she  held.  No  meal  prepared  for  Honey  had  been 
like  this,  and  they  would  sit  over  it  cosily  together,  all 
the  more  conscious  of  their  union  when  the  little  buzzing 
bell  of  the  shop  divided  them,  and  Tom,  new  privileged, 
would  sit  in  the  back  room  listening  to  Thyrza  serving 
Putlands  or  Sindens  or  Bourners  or  Hubbies,  and  getting 
rid  of  them  as  quickly  as  she  could — which,  it  must  be 
confessed,  was  not  very  quick,  for  she  was  far  too  soft 


JERRY  113 

and  kind  to  turn  anyone  out  who  seemed  to  want  to  stay. 
Then  the  bell  which  had  divided  them  would  bring  them 
together  again  as  it  rang  behind  the  departing  shopper, 
and  Thyrza  would  come  back  to  the  lover  waiting  for  her 
in  the  red  twilight  beside  the  singing  fire. 

They  did  not  go  out  together  till  the  last  evening. 
Then  he  came  to  tea  and  stayed  to  supper,  and  in  the 
interval  they  went  into  the  lane  just  as  the  dusk  came 
stealing  up  the  sky.  Thyrza  had  objected  at  first. 

"  We  closed  early  yesterday,  and  folk  ull  be  vexed  if 
they  find  us  shut  this  evenun  too." 

"  Folk  be  hemmed !  This  is  my  last  evenun,  and  I'm 
going  to  taake  you  where  we  can't  hear  that  tedious 
liddle  bell  of  yourn." 

"  Doan't  miscall  my  bell,  fur  it  rings  when  you  come 
to  see  me.  In  the  old  days  when  it  rang,  I  used  to  say 
to  myself,  '  Is  that  Tom? '  and  look  through  the  winder, 
hoping  ..." 

"  Thyrza,  did  you  love  me  then  ?  " 

"  Reckon  I  did.  But  I  doan't  know  as  I  ever  thought 
much  about  it,  fur  I  maade  sure  as  at  the  raate  you  wur 
going  it  ud  be  a  dunnamany  years  afore  you  started 
courting  praaperly." 

"  I'm  glad  I  didn't  wait,  surelye.  Oh,  liddle  creature, 
you  can't  know  wot  this  week's  bin  to  me.  I'll  go  out  to 
France  feeling  .  .  .  feeling  ...  I  can't  tell  you  wot  I 
feel,  but  it's  as  if  I  wur  leaving  part  of  myself  behind, 
and  that  the  part  I  left  behind  wur  helping  and  backing 
up  the  part  out  there  ...  it  sounds  unaccountable  silly 
when  I  say  it,  but  it's  wot  I've  got  in  my  heart." 

They  were  in  the  big  pasture  meadow  near  Little 
Worge,  sitting  by  the  willow-pond  which  lay  cupped 
against  the  lane.  It  was  the  first  and  the  last  landmark 
in  Sunday  Street — the  thick  scummed  water  with  the 
grey  trees  dipping  their  leaves  in  its  stillness.  To-day  a 


114  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

soft  wind  rustled  in  them,  blowing  from  the  west,  and 
scarcely  louder  than  the  wind  throbbed  the  distant  guns, 
the  beating  of  that  racked  far-off  heart  whose  terrible 
secrets  Tom  was  soon  to  know.  Thyrza  shuffled  against 
his  side  as  they  sat  on  the  grass. 

"  Oh,  Tom— hear  the  guns  ?  It's  tar'ble  to  think  of 
you  out  there." 

"  I'll  come  back,  surelye." 

"  Do  you  feel  as  if  you  will?  " 

"  Surelye — since  I've  left  half  myself  behind." 

Her  arms  stole  round  him,  and  the  beating  of  that  far- 
away heart  was  drowned  in  the  beating  of  his  under  her 
cheek. 

A  pale  cowslip  light  was  in  the  sky,  creeping  over  the 
fields,  putting  yellower  tints  into  Thyrza's  butter  skin 
and  a  web  of  gold  over  her  ashen  hair.  Gradually  it 
seemed  to  flower  in  the  dusk  till  all  the  field  was  lit  up 
.  .  .  the  mounds  and  molehills  with  hollows  scooped 
darkly  against  the  light,  the  pond  like  thick  yellow  glass, 
the  willows  like  drooping  flame.  The  picture  became 
graven  on  Tom's  heart — the  grey  sky  blooming  with  light 
and  shedding  it  down  on  the  field  of  the  mounds  and 
molehills,  the  pond,  the  willows,  and  the  woman  drows- 
ing in  his  arms — so  that  when  later  in  France  he  thought 
of  England,  he  thought  of  it  only  as  that  willow-pond 
at  the  opening  of  Sunday  Street,  and  Thyrza  Honey 
lying  heavy  and  warm  and  sweet  against  his  breast. 

"  Hold  me  close,  Tom,  dearie — hold  me  close,  so's  I 
doan't  hear  the  war.  Aun't  it  queer  how  our  hearts  beat 
louder  than  the  guns !  ..." 


PART  III:      THYRZA 


THAT  autumn  and  winter  there  was  a  lot  of  talk 
in  the  papers  about  food.  Wedged  into  news  of 
the  Ancre  and  Beaumont  Hamel,  the  crumpling- 
up  of  Roumania  under  von  Mackensen,  and  President 
Wilson's  Peace  Note,  came  paragraphs  and  letters  and 
articles  on  food  and  the  ways  of  economising  and  pro- 
ducing it.  The  latter  most  troubled  Harry,  as  he  thought 
of  the  modest  spring-sowings  of  Worge.  If  it  was  indeed 
true  that  the  German  U-boats  were  threatening  the  coun- 
try's wheat  supply,  might  it  not  be  as  well  to  reclaim  the 
old  tillage  of  the  Sunk  Field  or  even  break  up  grassland 
in  the  high  meadows  by  Bucksteep? 

Harry  did  not  often  read  the  papers,  getting  all  his 
news  from  the  Daily  Express  poster  which  Mrs.  Honey 
displayed  outside  the  shop  when  the  papers  arrived  at 
noon ;  but  when  paper-restrictions  brought  posters  to  an 
end,  he  went  skimming  through  Mus'  Beatup's  Sussex 
News,  and  one  day  skimming  was  changed  to  plodding 
by  a  very  solid  article  on  wheat-production  and  the  pres- 
ent needs. 

In  many  ways  it  was  a  revelation  to  Harry.  Though 
he  had  been  a  farm-boy  all  his  life  it  had  never  struck 
him  till  then  that  grain-growing  was  of  any  importance 
to  the  nation,  or  imagined  that  the  Worge  harvests  mat- 
tered outside  Worge.  The  fields,  the  stock  had  been  to 
him  all  so  many  means  of  livelihood,  and  the  only  motive 
of  himself  and  his  fellow-workers  the  negative  one  of 

115 


116  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

keeping  Worge  from  the  auctioneer's.  If  he  ever  realised 
his  part  in  the  great  adventure,  it  was  only  when  he  saw 
his  duty  to  keep  the  place  together  for  Tom  to  fight  for. 
This  was  his  newest  and  highest  motive,  and  when  he 
refused  the  call  of  distant  woods,  broke  with  the  Brown- 
bread  rat-and-sparrovv  club,  and  paid  no  more  than  a 
business  visit  to  Senlac  Fair,  it  was  so  that  Tom's  sacrifice 
should  not  be  in  vain.  But  here  was  a  chap  making  out 
that  a  farmer  was  very  nearly  as  important  as  a  soldier, 
and  that  it  was  on  the  wheat-fields  of  England  as  well  as 
on  the  battlefields  of  France  that  the  war  would  be 
won.  .  .  . 

After  this,  Harry  always  read  the  food-supply  news, 
and  pondered  it.  Was  it  indeed  true  that  the  war  which 
was  being  waged  with  such  gallantry  and  fortitude 
abroad  might  be  lost  at  home  ?  For  the  first  time  he  had 
a  personal  interest  in  the  struggle,  apart  from  the  in- 
terest he  felt  through  Tom.  Hitherto  the  war  had  meant 
nothing  to  him,  because  he  had  thought  he  meant  nothing 
to  the  war — he  was  too  young  to  be  a  soldier,  probably 
always  would  be,  since  everyone  said  that  peace  would 
come  next  year.  All  he  had  had  of  warfare  was  the 
distant  throb  and  grumble  of  guns  a  hundred  miles  away 
— not  even  a  prowling  Taube  or  lost  Zeppelin  had  visited 
the  country  within  the  Four  Roads.  First  the  lighting 
order,  then  the  liquor  control,  then  the  Conscription  Act 
— only  thus  and  indirectly  had  the  war  touched  him, 
requiring  of  him  merely  a  passive  part.  But  now  he  saw 
that  he  also  might  take  his  active  share,  and  the  realisation 
set  fire  to  his  clay. 

The  winter  was  a  bad  one — bitterly  cold,  with  thick 
green  ice  on  the  ponds,  and  a  skimming  of  hard  snow 
on  the  fields,  where  the  soil  was  like  iron.  The  marshes 
of  Horse  Eye  were  sheeted  with  a  frozen  overflow,  and 
the  wind  that  rasped  and  whiffled  from  the  east,  stung 


THYRZA  117 

the  skin  like  wire,  and  piercing  the  cracks  of  barns, 
made  the  stalled  cattle  shiver  and  stamp.  There  was 
little  work  on  the  farm,  though  Harry  had  done  his  best 
to  fulfil  Tom's  injunctions,  and  had  carted  his  manure 
and  turned  a  strong  furrow  to  the  frost.  The  lambing 
had  been  got  through  somehow — but  two  ewes  and  three 
or  four  lambs  had  died,  as  they  would  never  have  done 
if  Tom  had  been  there.  At  every  turn  Harry  was  faced 
by  his  own  inexperience,  and  learned  only  at  the  price  of 
many  disappointments  and  much  humiliation. 

But  he  was  the  type  which  failure  only  makes  dogged, 
and  his  unsuccessful  winter  heleped  his  new  sense  of  the 
country's  need  in  making  him  plan  daringly  for  the 
spring.  He  resolved  that  his  apprenticeship  should  not 
last  beyond  the  winter — it  was  his  own  fault  that  it  had 
lasted  so  long — and  in  March  he  would  get  to  business, 
and  start  his  scheming  for  doubling  the  grain  acreage  of 
the  farm. 

There  were  several  acres  of  old  tillage  to  be  reclaimed, 
and  Harry  was  young  and  daring  and  amateurish  enough 
to  contemplate  also  breaking  up  grass-land.  He  would 
of  course  have  to  consult  his  father  first.  Mus'  Beatup 
had  spent  a  sorry  winter,  "  kipping  the  coald  out  "  at  the 
Rifle  Volunteer.  The  slackness  of  farm  work,  the  cold 
and  discomfort  of  the  weather,  the  growing  unpalatable- 
ness  of  his  meals,  all  combined  for  worse  results  than 
usual,  and  by  the  time  of  the  keen  wintry  spring  there 
was  no  denying  that  a  good  slice  of  both  his  physical  and 
mental  vigour  had  been  eaten  away.  However,  he  was 
still  the  nominal  head  of  the  farm,  and  must  be  consulted 
— Tom  would  have  had  it  so.  Unfortunately,  Harry 
chose  the  wrong  day.  Mus'  Beatup  was  sober,  but  suf- 
fering from  an  internal  chill  as  a  result  of  having  lain  for 
an  hour  in  the  frozen  slush  a  couple  of  nights  ago,  before 
Nimrod  the  watch-dog  found  him  and  brought  Harry  out 


118  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

with  his  frantic  barks.  To-day  he  sat  by  the  fire,  shud- 
dering and  muttering  to  himself,  drinking  a  cup  of  hot 
cocoa  and  swearing  at  his  wife  because  there  was  no 
sugar  in  it. 

"  I  can't  git  none,"  wailed  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  I  tried  at 
the  shop,  and  Nell  tried  in  Brownbread  Street,  and  Ivy's 
tried  in  Dallington,  and  Harry  asked  when  he  wur  over 
at  Senlac  market.  ..." 

"  And  have  you  tried  Rushlake  Green  and  Punnetts 
Town  and  Three  Cups  Corner  and  Heathfield  and  Hell- 
inglye  and  Hailsham?  You  try  a  bit  further  afore  you 
dare  to  give  me  this  stuff." 

"  But  there  aun't  none  in  the  whole  country — so  I've 
heard  tell." 

"  Maybe.  Reckon  Govunmunt's  got  it  all,  saum  as 
they've  got  all  the  beer  and  the  spirits.  They've  got 
pounds  and  pounds  of  it,  those  there  Cabinick  Ministers, 
and  eat  it  for  breakfast  and  dinner  and  tea.  I  tell  you 
I'm  dog-sick  of  this  war,  and  I'm  hemmed  if  I  move 
another  step  to  help  a  Govunmunt  as  taakes  fust  our 
beer  and  then  our  boys,  and  then  our  sugar  " — and  Mus' 
Beatup  spat  dramatically  into  the  fire,  as  if  it  were 
Whitehall. 

The  moment  was  not  propitious,  but  Harry  had  to 
consider  the  weather,  which  showed  possibilities  that 
must  be  made  use  of  at  once.  Mus'  Beatup  listened 
wearily  to  his  suggestions. 

"  Oh,  it's  more  wheat  as  they  want,  is  it  ?  They're 
going  to  take  that  next.  .  .  .  Reclaim  the  oald  tillage? 
Wot  did  we  let  it  go  fallow  fur,  if  it  wurn't  cos  it  dudn't 
pay  the  labour?  .  .  .  Break  up  the  grass-land?  You'll 
be  asking  to  plough  the  kitchen  floor  next." 

"  If  we  doan't  do  summat,  I  reckon  we'll  be  maade  to." 

"  Reckon  we  will — saum  as  we  wur  maade  to  give  up 
Tom.  And  they  say  this  country's  fighting  Prussian 
tyranny." 


THYRZA  119 

"Well,  faather,  if  we  doan't  grow  more  corn  we'll 
lose  the  war.  I  wur  reading  in  the  paapers  as  all  our 
corn  and  wheat  used  to  come  from  f urrin  parts,  but  now, 
wud  ships  wanted  to  carry  soldiers  and  them  hemmed 
U-boats  spannelling  around.  ..." 

"  You  talk  Tik  the  Sussex  News.  Wot  d'you  want  to 
go  vrothering  about  them  things  fur  ?  You  do  your  work 
and  doan't  go  roving." 

"  Faather,  I  aun't  bin  roving  all  this  winter." 

"  No,  you  aun't — that's  a  good  lad,  fur  sartain 
sure." 

"  And  if  you  let  me  do  this  job,  I  promise  I'll  stick  to 
it  and  pull  it  through." 

"  You  might  as  well  chuck  your  money  into  the  pond 
as  spend  it  on  grain-growing  nowadays." 

"  Not  wud  all  these  new  arrangements  the  Govun- 
munt's  maade  .  .  .  guaranteed  prices  and  all.  Oh, 
faather,  let  me  try  as  I  said.  I  want  to  do  my  bit  saum 
as  Tom." 

"  Seemingly  your  bit's  to  land  Worge  at  the  auc- 
tioneer's. Howsumdever,  do  wot  you  lik — I'm  ill  and 
helpless  and  oald.  I  can't  stop  you.  Now  adone  do 
wud  all  this  vrotherification  of  a  poor  sick  man,  and 
ask  mother  to  let  me  have  a  spoonful  of  syrup  in  this 
nasty  muck." 


So  on  Harry,  sixteen  years  old,  with  little  or  no 
experience,  and  a  bad  character  to  live  down,  fell  the 
task  of  bringing  Worge  into  line  with  a  national  en- 
deavour. It  was  strange  how  his  earthy  imagination  had 
taken  fire  at  the  new  idea,  and  a  curious  justification  of 
the  Press.  A  sense  of  patriotism  had  wakened  in  him, 
as  it  had  not  wakened  in  Tom  after  nearly  a  twelve- 
month's service.  Tom  was  no  longer  indifferent  or  un- 
willing, but  his  enthusiasm  scarcely  went  beyond  the  regi- 


120  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

ment — the  feeling  of  "  Sussex  chaps  " — the  idea  of  fight- 
ing for  Worge,  or,  at  the  most  abstract,  "  having  a  whack 
at  Kayser  Bill." 

He  had  been  in  France  about  three  months  now.  He 
had  not  been  sent  over  as  soon  as  he  expected,  but  in 
November  there  had  been  a  big  draft  from  the  i8th 
Sussex,  including  Tom  and  Jerry  and  Bill,  also  Mus' 
Archie — Mus'  Dixon,  who  had  been  badly  gassed  on  the 
Somme,  stayed  behind  in  charge  of  "  School,"  and 
rumour  said  that  he  would  not  be  sent  out  again.  So 
far  Tom  seemed  to  have  had  a  far  duller  time  abroad 
than  in  England ;  he  had  not  so  much  as  seen  a  German,' 
and  his  letters  home  were  chiefly  about  mud.  The 
family  jealously  hinted  that  his  letters  to  Thyrza  Honey 
were  more  entertaining.  However,  he  kept  his  promise 
to  Harry,  and  sent  him  councillor  postcards  now  and 
again.  The  last  had  consisted  of  just  one  word — 
" spuds ! " 

That  was  the  spring  when  potatoes  were  being  sold  at 
sixpence  a  pound  in  Eastbourne  and  Hastings,  and  such 
inducements  were  held  out  to  growers,  that  instead  of 
the  usual  modest  half-acre,  Harry  intended  to  make  pota- 
toes part  of  his  new  scheme.  The  two-acre  was  in 
potash  this  year,  also  the  home  field,  and  Harry  decided 
to  break  up  the  pasture-land  next  the  orchard.  Some 
of  the  space  would  have  to  be  used  for  roots — swedes 
and  wurzels — but  there  would  be  a  spud-growing  such 
as  Worge  had  never  seen  in  its  history. 

Then  there  was  the  more  ticklish  problem  of  the 
grain,  and  what  kinds  to  sow.  Harry  took  Tom's  advice 
and  decided  on  Sandy  oats  for  the  Street  field  and  the 
field  next  the  Volunteer.  In  the  home  field  he  would 
grow  awned  wheat — and  red  spring  wheat  on  the  re- 
claimed tillage  of  the  Sunk  Field. 

Then  came  the  problem  of  which  grass-lands  to  break 


THYRZA  121 

up.  If  only  Tom  had  been  there  to  advise  him!  He 
dare  not  ask  his  father,  in  case  he  should  withdraw  his 
first  permission.  Breaking  up  grass-land  is  heresy  to  an 
orthodox  farmer,  and  it  was  quite  possible  that  Mus' 
Beatup  would  change  his  mind  when  it  came  to  the  crisis. 
For  this  reason  Harry  said  no  more  about  it,  and  planned 
craftily  to  start  work  on  one  of  his  father's  "  bad  days," 
when  he  would  not  be  likely  to  interfere.  Left  without 
counsel,  he  decided  to  break  up  the  rest  of  the  Sunk  Field, 
also  Forges  Field,  and  an  old  pasture  at  the  Bucksteep 
end  of  the  farm.  These  were  wretched  soils  and  would 
have  to  be  heavily  manured ;  but  none  of  the  soils  round 
Worge  was  really  good,  and  some  decent  grass  must  be 
left  for  the  cows  and  ewes.  Manures  were  scarce  and 
dear,  owing  to  the  war,  but  Harry  thought  he  could  make 
shift  with  the  farmyard  dung,  supplemented  by  a  little 
night-soil,  and  a  ton  of  waste  from  the  gypsum  mines 
near  Robertsbridge. 

All  this  cost  him  more  thinking  than  he  had  ever  done 
in  his  life.  Once  or  twice  he  lay  awake  from  bed-time 
till  dawn,  adding  up  figures,  working  out  ways  and 
means,  and  making  plans  for  settling  any  opposition, 
drunk  or  sober,  from  Mus'  Beatup.  His  responsibility 
was  enormous,  but  he  was  at  bottom  too  simple-minded 
to  feel  the  full  weight  of  it,  and  his  enthusiasm  flamed 
as  clear  as  ever.  By  crabbed  and  common  means — even 
the  smudgy  columns  of  a  provincial  newspaper — the 
vision  had  come  to  a  country  boy's  heart,  and  found 
there  a  divine,  undeveloped  quality  of  imagination,  and 
an  undisciplined  power  of  enterprise.  These  two,  which 
had  hitherto  united  to  keep  him  from  his  work,  were  now 
forged  together  in  the  heat  of  the  new  idea.  But  for  the 
first  he  would  never  have  heard  the  call,  and  the  second 
alone  made  it  possible  that  he  should  obey  it. 


122  THE  FOUR  ROADS 


Harry  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  faces  of  Juglery 
and  Elphick  when  he  told  them  he  meant  to  plough  the 
Sunk  Field. 

"  Break  up  grass,  Mus'  Harry !  " 

"  Surelye !  They're  asking  farmers  all  over  the  country 
to  grow  more  wheat." 

"  Does  Maaster  know  as  you  mean  to  plough  the 
Sunk?" 

"  Reckon  he  does.  I  cud  never  do  it  wudout  he  let 
me." 

"  Well,"  said  old  Juglery,  "  I've  bin  on  farm-work  man 
and  boy  these  dunnamany  year,  and  I've  only  bruk  up 
grass  two  times,  and  no  good  come  of  it,  nuther.  Wunst 
it  wur  fur  oald  Mus'  Backfield  up  at  Odiam,  him  wot 
caum  to  nighe  a  hundred  year,  and  then  took  a  fit  last 
fall  and  died  of  joy  when  he  heard  as  wheat  wur  ninety 
shillings  a  quarter.  T'other  wur  pore  young  Mus'  Fix 
of  the  Trulilows,  and  he  bruk  up  a  valiant  pasture,  and 
the  oats  caum  up  crawling  about  like  pease,  and  each  had 
a  gurt  squlgy  root  lik  a  pertater.  I  says  tp  him,  being 
young  and  joking  like  in  those  days,  '  You're  unaccount- 
able lucky,'  says  I,  '  to  grow  pease  and  pertaters  on  the 
same  stalk,'  but  he  took  it  to  heart,  and  went  and  shot 
himself  in  the  oast.  So  you  see  as  boath  the  yeomen  I 
bruk  up  grass  fur  died,  one  o'  joy  and  t'other  o'  sorrow." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  die  of  nuther,  and  we'll  have  the 
plough  out  Thursday  if  the  weather  hoalds." 

The  men  were  getting  used  to  being  ordered  about  by 
Harry.  Mus'  Beatup's  chill  had  gone  off  in  a  twisting 
bout  of  rheumatism,  which  returned  every  now  and  then 
with  damp  weather.  He  spent,  therefore,  a  good  deal  of 
time  in  the  house,  with  sometimes  a  hobble  as  far  as  the 
Rifle  Volunteer,  appearing  only  in  the  dry,  frosty  weather 


THYRZA 

when  little  could  be  done  with  harrow  or  plough.  How- 
ever, when  neighbouring  farmers  began  to  remark  on  the 
enterprise  of  Worge,  he  was  careful  to  take  the  credit 
to  himself — indeed  he  almost  fancied  that  it  was  his  own 
doing,  for  Harry,  who  could  have  done  nothing  without 
his  authority,  was  careful  to  consult  him  on  every  oc- 
casion, and  it  was  Mus'  Beatup  who  ordered  the  grain 
and  checked  the  accounts,  with  many  groans  and  dismal 
foretellings. 

Those  were  good  days  for  Harry,  behind  his  plough. 
Under  the  soft  grey  spring  sky,  rifted  and  stroked  by 
wandering  primrose  lights,  through  the  damp  air  that 
smelled  of  living  mould,  over  the  brown  earth  that  rolled 
and  sprayed  like  a  wave  from  the  driving  coulter,  he 
toiled  sweating  in  the  raw  March  cold.  The  smell  of 
earth,  the  smell  of  his  own  sweat,  the  smell  of  the  sweat 
of  his  horses  hung  thick  over  the  plough,  but  every  now 
and  then  soft  damp  puffs  of  air  would  blow  into  the 
miasma  the  fragrance  of  grass  and  primrose  buds,  of 
sticky,  red,  uncurling  leaves,  and  the  new  moss  in  the 
woods.  The  share  gleamed  against  the  dun,  and  the 
brown  twigs  of  the  copses  drew  their  spindled  tracery 
against  a  sky  which  was  the  paler  colour  of  earth — some- 
times a  shower  would  fall,  slanting  along  the  hedges,  the 
thick  drops  tasting  on  Harry's  lips  of  the  unfulfilled 
spring. 

His  work  made  him  very  tired.  After  all,  he  was 
barely  seventeen,  and  though  sturdy  had  only  just  begun 
to  use  his  strength.  The  work  of  the  farm  was  much 
increased  by  the  new  plan,  yet  it  was  impossible  to  bring 
extra  hands  to  it,  except  occasionally  by  the  conscription 
of  Zacky.  Harry  milked  and  ploughed  and  scattered  and 
dug,  rising  in  the  foggy  blue  darkness  of  the  morning, 
and  often  sitting  up  late  over  calculations  and  accounts. 
Elphick  and  Juglery  gave  a  pottering,  rheumatic  service, 


124  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Mus'  Beatup  could  only  be  irregularly  relied  upon.  So 
in  time  Harry  learned  what  it  was  to  doze  off  out  of  sheer 
weariness  over  his  supper,  or  fall  across  the  bed  asleep 
before  he  had  pulled  his  trousers  off.  But  strangely 
enough,  he  found  the  life  no  hardship.  Before  the  first 
thrill  of  enterprise  had  passed  he  was  beginning  to  like 
the  work  for  its  own  sake.  There  was  a  new  keen 
pleasure  in  the  wearing  of  his  muscles,  almost  a  physical 
luxury  in  his  fatigue,  and  the  lying  with  spread  limbs 
before  the  fire  of  evenings.  His  life  seemed  good  and 
full — everything  was  worth  while,  eating  or  sleeping  or 
toiling  or  resting.  For  the  earth  sometimes  makes  of  her 
servants  lovers. 

He  was  far  too  busy  during  his  working  hours  and 
weary  during  his  leisure  to  find  much  temptation  in  his 
old  errant  pleasures.  Willie  Sinden  appealed  in  vain  to 
a  grimy,  sweaty  Harry  asleep  for  an  hour  before  the 
fire  at  night — he  was  too  unaccountable  wearied  to 
vrother  about  ratting  or  Willie's  new  ferret;  and  he 
went  to  Senlac  and  Heathfield  and  Hailsham  Fairs  to 
sell  beasts,  not  to  drink  gingerbeer  or  pot  into  the  German 
Kaiser's  mouth  in  the  shooting-gallery.  Even  the  distant 
woods  had  ceased  to  call,  for  Harry  was  now  tasting  their 
adventure  in  his  daily  work.  The  chocolate  furrows  of 
the  Sunk  Field  were  part  of  that  same  wonder  which  had 
teased  him  in  the  fluttering  hazels  of  Molash  Spinney  or 
the  wind  in  the  gorse-thickets  of  Thunders  Hill.  The 
far-off  village  green  of  Bird-in-Eye  was  not  more  full 
of  spells  than  the  new-sown  acres  by  Forges  Wood.  By 
his  toil,  and  because  he  toiled  as  a  man,  from  the  spark 
of  imagination  within  him,  and  not  as  a  beast  from  the 
grind  of  circumstances  without,  he  had  brought  the  dis- 
tant adventure  home. 


THYRZA  125 


In  February  Tom's  letters  became  more  rousing.  The 
1 8th  Sussex  took  part  in  the  big  advance  on  the  Ancre, 
and  though  Tom  himself  did  not  do  anything  very 
exciting,  he  was  no  longer  in  the  humiliating  position  of 
having  never  seen  a  German.  His  descriptions  of  battle 
were  rather  fumbling — "  Then  we  had  some  tea  and  a 
chap  got  in  from  the  Glosters  who  had  his  tunick  torn 
something  terrible." — "  We  come  into  a  French  village 
full  of  apple-trees  and  the  walls  were  down  so  as  you 
saw  into  the  houses,  and  in  one  house  there  was  a  pot 
of  ferns  on  the  table."  He  also  confessed,  in  reply  to 
a  message  from  Zacky,  that  though  he  had  seen  several 
Germans,  "  with  faces  like  roots,"  he  had  not,  to  his 
knowledge,  killed  one. 

Mus'  Beatup  thought  it  necessary  to  improve  on  his 
son's  letters  at  the  pub. 

"  Tom's  having  valiant  times,"  he  would  say  to  the 
bar  of  the  Rifle  Volunteer  or  of  the  Crown  at  Woods 
Corner.  "  He  killed  a  German  officer  wud  his  bayunite 
and  took  his  machine-gun.  Mus'  Archie  Lamb  is  un- 
accountable proud  of  him,  and  says  he's  sure  to  be  a 
lieutenant  of  the  Sussex  before  long.  He's  a  good  lad 
is  my  lad,  and  it's  a  tedious  shaum  as  he  was  tuk  away 
from  his  praaper  personal  wark  and  maade  a  soldier  of. 
There's  none  of  my  folk  bin  soldiers  up  till  now — it's 
yeomen  we're  born  and  we  doan't  taake  wages.  .  .  . 
When's  he  think  the  war  ull  stop? — Well,  it  might  be 
any  time,  if  the  Govunmunt  doan't  starve  us  all  fust." 

Sometimes  Thyrza  Honey  brought  Tom's  letters  up 
to  read  to  the  family  at  Worge.  She  was  rather  shy  of 
her  future  relations-in-law,  who  made  no  special  effort 
to  be  agreeable  to  her.  Mrs.  Beatup  persisted  in  look- 
ing on  her  as  a  designing  woman  who  had  forcibly^ 


126  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

captured  the  innocent  Tom,  Nell  was  too  clever  for  her, 
and  the  males  were  grumpy  and  sidling.  Only  Ivy 
seemed  to  like  her,  but  Ivy  was  on  bad  terms  with  her 
family  at  present,  as  ever  since  young  Kadweli  on  leave 
had  forsaken  his  sweetheart  of  the  Foul  Mile  for  her 
robuster  charms,  and  the  deserted  one  had  turned  up  in 
rage  and  dishevelment  to  make  a  personal  protest  at 
Worge,  the  Beatups  had  chosen  to  resent  her  "  goings 
on."  They  also  threw  Jerry  Sumption  in  her  teeth  and 
vaguely  accused  her  of  "  things."  Now  no  young  man 
ever  came  to  Worge  without  her  parents  lamenting  that 
they  had  a  light  daughter,  and  rows  were  frequent  and 
undignified.  So  Ivy's  liking  was  no  recommendation  of 
Thyrza,  who  in  consequence  was  suspected  of  goings  on 
herself.  However,  she  would  not  give  up  her  visits,  for 
she  knew  Tom  liked  her  to  pay  them,  and  often — rather 
tactlessly — sent  messages  to  his  family  through  her. 

Thyrza  knew  more  about  the  British  front  and  the 
Battle  of  the  Ancre  than  did  the  Beatups.  Not  that 
Tom  could  be  eloquent  even  to  her,  but  her  imagination, 
warmed  by  love,  was  quicker  to  piece  together  the  frag- 
ments and  fill  in  the  gaps.  Also  he  told  her  things  that 
he  would  not  have  told  the  others.  It  was  she  who 
heard  the  details  of  the  great  occasion  on  which  he  first 
actually  and  personally  killed  a  German. 

"  I  was  sentry,  and  you  always  feel  as  the  place  is  full 
of  Boshes,  and  you  think  you  see  them  and  it  isn't 
them.  Then  one  night  after  moon-up  I  thought  I  saw 
a  Bosh  over  against  the  enemy  wire,  and  I  said  to  my- 
self as  he  wasn't  a  Bosh  really,  though  my  hair  was  all 
standing  up  on  my  head.  Then  he  moved  and  I  let 
fly  with  my  rifle  as  I've  done  umpty  times  at  nothing, 
and  then  he  was  still  and  I  saw  him  hanging  on  the  wire. 
Reckon  he  was  dead,  but  I  went  on  putting  round  after 
round  into  him  I  felt  so  queer — not  scared  only  kind 


THYRZA  127 

of  enjoying  it  like  as  if  you  were  shooting  at  the  Fair, 
only  I  knew  as  I  was  killing  something  and  it  made  me 
happy.  But  afterwards  I  got  very  cold  and  sick." 

"  He  never  tells  us  how  he  feels  about  things,"  com- 
plained Mrs.  Beatup.  "  It's  never  rnore'n  '  I  had  my 
dinner '  to  us." 

"  Reckon  he  doan't  git  much  time  for  writing  letters. 
He  knows  as  wot  he  tells  me  gits  passed  on  to  you." 

"  Well,  I'll  never  say  naun  agaunst  you,  Thyrza  Honey, 
but  I  must  point  out  as  he  knew  us  afore  he  knew  you. 
He's  unaccountable  young  to  be  shut  of  his  mother,  and 
it  ud  be  praaperer  if  his  messages  wur  to  you  through 
us." 

Mrs.  Beatup's  voice  was  hoarse  with  dignity,  and 
Thyrza  hung  her  head. 

"  I'm  the  last  as  ud  ever  want  to  taake  him  away 
from  his  mother,"  she  murmured — and  ten  days  later 
Mrs.  Beatup  got  a  thick  smudgy  letter  on  which  Tom 
had  spent  hours  of  ink  and  sweat  in  obedience  to  Thyrza's 
command. 


About  a  fortnight  later  an  impudent-looking  little  girl 
with  a  big  mouth  came  wobbling  up  Worge  drive  on  a 
bicycle,  and  from  a  wallet  extracted  a  telegram  which  she 
handed  to  Zacky,  who  sat  on  the  doorstep  peeling  a  stick. 
Zacky  ran  with  it  to  his  mother,  who  refused  to  open  it. 

"  I'll  have  no  truck  with  telegrams — they're  bad  things. 
Fetch  your  faather." 

Zacky  ran  off  in  great  excitement,  and  soon  Mus' 
Beatup  came  lumbering  in,  very  red  after  planting 
potatoes. 

"  Wot's  all  this,  mother? — another  of  those  hemmed 
telegrams  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  reckon  Tom's  killed  this  time." 


128  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Can't  be — we  only  got  a  letter  last  night." 

"  Ivy  says  they  taake  four  days  to  come  over.  He 
may  have  bin  killed  this  mornun — got  a  shell  in  his 
stomach  lik  Viner's  poor  young  boy." 

"  Maybe  it's  to  say  he's  coming  hoame,"  said  Zacky. 

"  Shurrup !  "  growled  his  father. 

He  tore  the  envelope,  with  a  queer  twitching  of  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  He  aun't  killed,"  he  said  shakily — "  only  wounded." 

A  moan  came  from  the  mother's  parted  lips,  and  she 
closed  her  eyes. 

"  Maybe  it's  naun  very  tar'ble,"  continued  the  father. 
"  They  said  '  serious  '  in  Mus'  Viner's  telegram ;  here  it's 
only — '  regret  to  inform  you  that  Private  Beatup  has  been 
wounded  in  action.' " 

"  Will  they  let  me  go  to  him?  " 

"  Aun't  likely — he's  over  in  France." 

Mrs.  Beatup  did  not  cry,  but  all  the  colour  went  from 
her  face  and  her  lips  were  strangely  blue.  Then  sud- 
denly her  head  fell  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"  Zacky !  "  shouted  Mus'  Beatup — "  fetch  the  whisky 
bottle  that's  in  the  pocket  of  my  oald  coat  behind  the 
door." 

He  put  his  arm  round  his  wife,  and  lifted  her  head  to 
his  shoulder,  while  Zacky  ran  off  with  piercing  howls. 
These  were  fortunately  louder  than  those  of  the  poor 
duck  whose  neck  Ivy  was  wringing  outside  the  stable. 
She  rushed  in,  all  bloody  from  her  victim,  and  in  a  few 
moments  had  laid  her  mother  on  the  floor,  unfastened 
her  dingy  remains  of  stays,  and  dabbled  her  forehead 
with  water,  while  Mus'  Beatup,  relieved  of  his  steward- 
ship, stumped  about,  groaning,  and  drank  the  whisky 
himself.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  the  big-mouthed  little 
girl,  forgotten  in  the  drive,  started  beating  on  the  door 
and  demandinb  "  if  there  was  an  answer,  please." 


THYRZA  129 

Zacky  was  sent  to  dismiss  her  and  vented  his  grief  on 
the  messenger  of  woe  by  putting  out  his  tongue  at  her 
till  she  was  out  of  sight — a  salute  which  she  returned 
with  all  the  increased  opportunities  that  nature  had  given 
her. 

Mrs.  Beatup  soon  recovered. 

"  I  caum  over  all  swummy  like  .  .  .  this  is  the  first 
time  I've  swounded  since  Zacky  wur  born  ...  I  reckon 
this  is  sharper  than  childbirth." 

The  tears  came  at  last,  and  she  sobbed  against  Ivy's 
bosom. 

"  Doan't  go  vrothering,  mother.  I  tell  you  it's  naun 
tar'ble.  They  said  '  seriously  '  when  poor  Sid  Viner  wur 
wounded  to  death,  and  Ted  Podgam  in  Gallipoli.  Maybe 
they'll  send  him  hoame  soon/' 

"  I  want  to  go  to  him.  .  .  .  He's  got  a  hole  in  him. 
.  .  .  Why  do  they  kip  his  mother  from  him  when  he's 
sick  ?  When  he  had  measles  he  never  let  go  my  hand  one 
whole  day,  and  he  said,  '  Stay  wud  me,  mother — I  feel 
tedious  bad.'  Maybe  he's  saying  it  now." 

"  And  maybe  he  aun't.  Maybe  he's  setting  up  in  bed 
eating  chicken  and  drinking  wine,  wud  no  more'n  a  piece 
off  his  big  toe." 

She  took  out  a  dirty  handkerchief  and  wiped  her 
mother's  eyes.  Then  she  said : 

"  I  maun  go  and  tell  Thyrza  Honey." 


But  the  fates  had  decided  to  honour  Tom's  mother 
above  his  sweetheart  in  that  it  was  she  alone  who  bore 
the  full  grief  of  his  wounding.  On  her  way  to  the  shop, 
Ivy  met  Thyrza  engaged  in  something  as  near  a  run  as 
her  plump  person  was  capable  of,  and  waving  in  her 
hand  a  letter.  It  was  a  pencil-scrawl  written  in  hospital 


130  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

at  Boulogne,  telling  Thyrza  not  to  vrother,  because  he 
was  doing  valiant.  He  had  got  a  Blighty  one  and  hoped 
to  be  sent  home  soon.  It  was  nothing  serious,  only  a 
bit  of  shrap  in  his  foot.  "  Didn't  I  tell  mother  as  it  was 
no  more'n  a  piece  off  his  big  toe  ?  "  cried  Ivy  trium- 
phantly. 

The  letter  had  been  Thyrza's  first  news  of  Tom's 
wound,  and  all  the  anxiety  and  yearning  she  felt  were 
swallowed  up  in  the  joy  of  his  coming  home.  A  few 
days  later  she  had  a  telegram  from  him,  telling  of  his 
arrival  in  hospital  at  Eastbourne,  and  by  this  time  Mrs. 
Beatup  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  resent  the  fact  that 
it  had  been  sent  to  Thyrza  and  not  to  her. 

Everyone  was  glad  that  Tom  was  at  Eastbourne,  as  it 
could  be  reached  from  Sunday  Street  in  a  few  hours  by 
carrier's  cart  and  train.  The  very  next  morning  Mrs. 
Beatup  and  Mrs.  Honey  set  out  together,  the  latter  with 
a  basket  of  eggs  and  flowers,  and  her  pockets  bulging 
with  Player's  cigarettes,  the  former  nursing  a  weighty 
dough-cake,  beloved  of  Tom  in  ancient  times,  and  so 
baked  that  she  fondly  hoped  he  would  never  notice  the 
nearly  total  absence  of  sugar  and  plums.  Thyrza  looked 
•very  unlike  herself  in  a  close-fitting  blue  jersey  and 
knitted  cap ;  Mrs.  Beatup  wore  what  she  called  her  Sun- 
day cape,  which  is  to  say  the  cape  she  would  have  worn 
on  Sundays  if  she  had  ever  had  the  leisure  to  go  out, 
likewise  her  Sunday  bonnet  (similarly  conditioned),  made 
of  black  straw  and  bearing  a  good  crop  of  wheat. 

The  two  women  went  by  carrier's  cart  to  Hailsham, 
where  they  took  the  train,  arriving  at  Eastbourne  soon 
after  one.  They  went  first  to  a  creamery,  where  they 
rather  hesitatingly  ordered  poached  eggs  and  a  pot  of 
tea.  The  eggs  were  stale  and  the  tea  had  not  that 
"  body "  which  their  custom  required.  Mrs.  Beatup 
began  to  wonder  what  Tom  was  getting  to  eat — if  this 


THYRZA  131 

was  what  you  got  when  you  paid  for  it,  what  did  you 
get  when  you  didn't  pay  for  it?  she'd  like  to  know. 

She  was  a  little  relieved  at  the  sight  of  Tom,  looking 
much  fatter  and  browner  and  better  in  hospital  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him  outside  it.  He  looked  happy, 
too,  with  his  broad  face  all  grins  to  see  them,  his  mother 
and  sweetheart.  And  since  he  looked  so  brown  and  well 
and  happy,  she  wondered  why  it  was  that  she  wanted 
so  much  to  cry. 

Thyrza  did  not  want  to  cry.  She  held  Tom's  hand, 
and  laughed,  and  was  quite  talkative,  for  her.  She 
made  him  tell  her  over  and  over  again  how  he  had  been 
wounded,  and  how  they  had  taken  him  to  the  base  hos- 
pital and  then  to  Boulogne,  and  then  in  a  hospital  ship 
all  signed  with  the  cross  to  Blighty.  Mrs.  Beatup  made 
up  her  mind  that  next  time  she  would  come  alone. 

And  so  she  did — much  to  the  surprise  of  her  family, 
who  had  hitherto  found  her  full  of  qualms  and  fears  even 
at  the  thought  of  a  visit  to  Senlac. 

"  I  mun  have  my  boy  to  myself  whiles  I've  got  the 
chance,"  she  said. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Ivy  tactlessly,  "  I  reckon  he'd  sooner 
have  you  separate — he'll  be  wanting  Thyrza  aloan  a  bit." 

"Will  he,  miss?  That  aun't  why  I'm  going  different 
days.  We  aun't  all  lik  you  wud  your  kissings  and  lover- 
ings.  I  wish  to  goodness  you'd  git  married  and  have 
done." 

"And  taake  some  poor  boy  away  from  his  mother," 
mocked  Ivy.  "  I  wouldn't  be  so  cruel." 

Her  mother  made  a  swoop  at  her  with  her  open  hand, 
but  Ivy  dodged,  and  ran  off,  laughing  good-naturedly. 

None  of  the  other  Beatups  ever  went  to  see  Tom  at 
Eastbourne.  The  journey  was  too  expensive,  and  they 
were  sure  to  have  him  home  on  leave  before  long.  Mrs. 
Beatup  went  about  twice  a  week,  with  various  messages 


132  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

from  the  rest  of  the  family  muddled  up  in  her  head.  She 
would  sit  beside  him,  holding  his  hand,  strangely  deli- 
cate with  sickness,  between  her  own  hard,  cracked,  work- 
weary  ones,  wishing  that  they  could  find  more  to  say  to 
each  other,  and  at  the  same  time  cherishing  those  num- 
bered moments  when  she  could  have  him  to  herself. 
Thyrza  went  oftener,  shutting  up  shop  with  a  reckless- 
ness that  would  have  ruined  a  less  personal  business. 
Tom's  only  other  visitor  was  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sump- 
tion. 

He  came  one  afternoon  to  inquire  about  Jerry,  but 
Tom  could  not  tell  him  much.  Jerry  kept  away  from 
him,  and  the  little  that  Beatup  knew  of  his  doings  he 
was  anxious  to  conceal  from  his  father. 

"  Maybe  now  he's  out  there  he'll  get  on  better,"  he 
suggested. 

"  Better?  He's  always  done  well,"  said  Mr.  Sumption 
loftily.  "  He'll  have  to  do  unaccountable  well  if  he  does 
better.  Don't  think,  Tom,  that  I  came  to  you  because 
I  doubted  my  son,  but  he  was  never  much  of  a  letter- 
writer,  and  now,  being  busy  and  all  ..." 

That  night  Tom  lay  awake  an  hour  or  so,  thinking  of 
parents.  It  was  queer  how  they  stuck  to  their  children. 
His  mother,  now,  coming  all  this  way  to  see  him,  though 
she  was  nervous  of  the  journey  and  had  very  little  money 
to  spend  on  it.  ...  Mr.  Sumption,  too,  standing  up  for 
that  lousy  tyke  of  a  Jerry.  .  .  .  Would  he  ever  feel  like 
this  for  one  of  his  own  flesh — not  only  when  that  one  lay 
helpless  and  dependent  on  him,  but  had  gone  out  from 
him  and  chosen  his  own  path?  "  Even  as  a  father  pitieth 
his  children  .  .  ."so  the  Bible  said,  and  seemingly  there 
was  no  bound  or  end  to  that  pity.  Perhaps  one  day  he 
would  feel  it  in  his  own  heart  (the  curve  of  Thyrza's 
arms  made  him  think  of  a  cradle).  He  remembered  what 
Mr.  Sumption  had  said  to  him  long  ago,  the  night  before 


THYRZA  133 

he  joined  up — "  You'll  understand  a  bit  of  what  I  feel 
.  .  .  some  day  when  you're  the  father  of  a  son." 


Perhaps  it  was  the  inactivity  of  the  days  that  made 
Tom  lie  awake  so  much  at  night.  He  generally  had  an 
hour  or  two  to  wait  for  sleep,  and  it  seemed  as  if  in  those 
hours  his  thoughts  jumped  and  raced  in  a  way  they 
never  did  by  daylight.  It  was  in  those  hours  that  he 
formed  his  resolution  to  marry  Thyrza  before  he  went 
back  to  France.  When  he  left  hospital  he  would  prob- 
ably have  a  fortnight  or  so  at  home,  and  they  could  be 
married  at  once  by  licence.  Then,  he  felt,  with  a  sudden 
swallowing  in  his  throat,  he  would  have  had  his  little  bit 
of  life,  even  if  Fritz  cut  it  short  before  he  could  see  those 
arms  he  loved  become  the  cradle  he  had  dreamed  them. 

The  future  meant  even  less  to  him  now  than  the  past. 
An  almighty  present  ruled  the  world  in  those  days,  for 
it  was  all  that  a  man  could  call  his  own.  Lord !  if  that 
crump  had  dropped  a  few  yards  nearer,  he  might  have 
lost  the  chances  he  was  grabbing  now.  He  wondered 
how  a  year  ago  he  could  ever  have  dreamed  and  dawdled 
over  his  love  for  Thyrza,  put  off  its  declaration  to  a  vague 
and  distant  time  which  might  never  be.  It  was  queer 
how  he  had  counted  on  the  future  then,  made  plans  for 
doing  things  "  sometime."  The  last  year  had  taught  him 
how  close  that  sometime  stood  to  Never.  Not  that  Tom 
felt  any  forebodings.  Indeed,  he  had  the  optimistic 
fatalism  of  most  soldiers.  He  was  safe  until  a  shell  came 
along  with  his  number  on,  and  then — well,  many  better 
chaps'  numbers  had  been  up  before  his.  Meantime,  it 
was  his  business  to  seize  the  present  hour  and  all  it  con- 
tained, nor,  when  he  planted,  think  of  gathering,  nor  in 
the  seed-time  dream  of  harvest. 


134  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

He  never  doubted  Thyrza's  readiness,  and  was  a  little 
surprised  when  she  mentioned  things  like  "  gitting  some 
cloathes,"  and  "  having  the  house  done."  Experience 
had  not  yet  taught  her  to  mistrust  the  future — for  her 
to-morrow  always  came,  and  must  be  decently  prepared 
for.  However,  when  she  saw  how  desperately  Tom  was 
set  on  marriage,  she  brushed  aside  the  scruples  of  habit 
with  a  heroism  they  both  of  them  failed  to  see. 

"  I'll  marry  you  soon  as  you  come  hoame,  dear,  and 
then  we  can  have  a  bit  of  honeymoon." 

"  We'll  go  away.  I'll  take  you  to  Hastings,  maybe — 
we'll  git  a  room  there." 

"  Oh,  Tom !  Lik  a  grand  couple !  We  mun't  go 
chucking  the  money  away." 

"  We  woan't  chuck  it  all  away,  but  we'll  chuck  a  fair- 
sized  bit.  I  doan't  git  much  chance  of  spending  out 
there." 

She  looked  at  him  tenderly. 

"  To  think  as  I  ever  thought  you  wur  slower  nor  me !  " 

"  I  wur  a  gurt  owl,"  said  Tom.  "  Lord!  if  I'd  a-gone 
West,  and  never  so  much  as  kissed  you  ..." 

"  But  you  did  kiss  me,  dear — in  the  shop,  the  evenun 
afore  you  went  away." 

"  Twur  only  your  hand,  and  I  wur  all  quaaking  like  a 
calf." 

Thyrza  sighed. 

"  It  wur  a  lovely  kiss." 

The  Beatups  were  naturally  indignant  at  Tom's 
decision.  To  them  it  savoured  of  undue  haste,  if  not  of 
indecency.  Courtships  in  Sunday  Street  usually  lasted 
from  two  to  ten  years.  Indeed,  Maudie  Speldrum  had 
been  wooed  for  fifteen  years  before  she  took  matters  into 
her  own  hands  and  proposed  to  Bert  Fix.  Tom  had  not 
been  engaged  to  Thyrza  six  months.  What  did  they 
want  to  get  married  for  ?  And  what  was  Tom  but  a  lad  ? 


THYRZA  135 

— a  mere  child  in  his  mother's  eyes — a  calf  that  Mrs. 
Honey  was  leading  to  market,  all  ignorant  (as  she  could 
not  be)  of  what  lay  ahead.  In  Sunday  Street,  marriage 
was  the  end — the  end  of  love,  the  end  of  youth — and 
mixed  with  Mrs.  Beatup's  jealousy  of  the  other  woman 
and  suspicion  of  her  motives,  was  the  desire  to  keep  her 
son  a  little  longer  in  the  frisky  meadows  of  his  boyhood 
before  he  was  led  to  those  lean  pastures  she  knew  so  well. 

8 

About  the  middle  of  March,  Tom  was  moved  to  a 
convalescent  hospital  at  Polegate,  and  a  fortnight  later 
sent  home.  Worge  gave  him  a  big  hail,  and  the  whole 
family,  including  Thyrza,  sat  down  to  a  supper  which 
was  supposed  to  outshine  the  best  efforts  of  hospital. 
That  supper  was  not  only  a  welcome  but  a  farewell. 
When  he  had  eaten  two  more  in  the  muddle  of  his  kin, 
he  would  eat  a  third  in  quiet,  alone  with  Thyrza.  The 
few  necessary  preparations  for  his  marriage  had  been 
made,  and  the  room  was  booked  in  Hastings  for  the  third 
day  from  now.  His  happiness  made  him  dreamy,  and 
also  tender  towards  those  he  was  to  leave,  for  though  he 
had  not  realised  his  mother's  jealousy  of  his  sweetheart, 
he  vaguely  understood  that  it  would  hurt  her  to  lose 
him,  as  lose  him  she  must  when  he  went  to  this  other 
woman's  arms.  So  he  held  her  hand  under  the  table 
oftener  and  longer  than  he  held  Thyrza's,  and  kissed  her 
good  night  without  being  asked. 

The  next  day  Harry  took  him  to  see  the  spring  sow- 
ings. They  were  finished  now,  and  the  chocolate  acres 
lay  moist  and  furrowed  in  a  muffle  of  misty  April  sun- 
shine. Harry,  more  thickset  and  sinewy  than  of  old, 
tramped  a  little  behind  his  brother,  as  a  workman  after 
an  inspector,  with  sidelong  glance  at  Tom's  brown,  stub- 


136  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

born  profile,  anxious  to  see  if  praise  or  delight  could  be 
read  there. 

Tom  was  indeed  delighted  with  the  fruits  of  Harry's 
industry,  swelling  in  soft,  scored  curves  from  Worge's 
southern  boundaries  at  Forges  Wood  to  the  northern 
limits  of  the  Street.  But  he  was  also  aghast. 

"  You'll  never  have  the  labour  to  kip  and  reap  this — 
and  you've  bruk  up  grass !  " 

"  I  can  manage  valiant  till  harvest,  and  then  I'll  git 
extra  hands.  As  for  the  grass,  'twur  only  an  old-fool's 
idea  that  it  mun  never  be  ploughed." 

"  And  I  reckon  'tis  a  young-fool's  idea  to  plough  it," 
said  Tom  rebukingly. 

"  The  newspaaper  said  as  grass-lands  mun  be  bruk  up 
now,  to  maake  more  acres." 

"  And  wot  does  the  paaper  know  about  it  ?  " 

"  A  lot,  seemingly." 

"  It  aun't  lik  to  know  more  than  men  as  have  worked 
on  the  ground  all  their  lives,  and  their  faathers  before 
'em.  Any  farmer  ull  tell  you  as  it's  hemmed  risky  to 
plough  grass." 

"  The  paaper  never  said  as  it  wurn't  risky,  but  it  said 
as  farmers  must  taake  some  risks  these  times,  and  git 
good  crops  fur  the  country,  and  help  on  the  War." 

"  Doan't  you  go  vrothering  about  the  \Var,  youngster. 
It  aun't  no  concern  of  yourn — and  I  reckon  it  woan't 
help  us  Sussex  boys  much  if  our  farms  go  to  the  auc- 
tioneer's while  we're  away." 

"  Worge  woan't  go  to  the  auctioneer's.  You  spik  lik 
faather  wud  his  faint  heart.  And  a  lot  of  good  it'll  do 
if  you  chaps  beat  the  Germans  out  there  and  we  have  to 
maake  peace  'cos  we're  starving  wud  hunger  at  home." 

"  There'll  be  no  starving — you  taake  it  from  me. 
We'll  have  'em  across  the  Rhine  in  another  six  months, 
so  '  kip  the  home-fires  burning  till  the  lads'  returning,' 


THYRZA  137 

and  doan't  go  mucking  up  the  farm  fur  the  saake  of  a 
lot  of  silly  stuff  you  read  in  the  paapers." 

But  Harry  stuck  doggedly  to  his  idea — 

"  I  mun  try,  Tom — and  I'll  never  git  the  plaace  sold 
up,  fur  we're  spending  naun  extra  save  fur  the  seed  and 
a  bit  of  manure.  I  go  unaccountable  wary,  and  do  most 
of  the  wark  myself,  wud  faather  to  help  me  on  his  good 
days,  and  Juglery  and  Elphick  stuck  on  jobs  as  they  can't 
do  no  harm  at.  It'll  do  Worge  naun  but  good  in  the  end 
— wheat's  at  eighty  shilling  a  quarter,  and  guaranteed — 
and  anyhow,  I  tell  you,  I  mun  try." 

Tom  was  impressed. 

"  Well,  Harry,  I  woan't  say  you  aun't  a  good  lad. 
But  it  maakes  me  unaccountable  narvous.  Here  have 
I  bin  toiling  and  sweating  this  five  year  jest  to  kip  the 
farm  together,  and  now  you  go  busting  out  all  round  and 
saying  it  ull  win  the  War.  Wot  if  we  chaps  out  there 
doan't  win,  t'aun't  likely  as  you  will.  How- 
sumdever  . 


Tom's  marriage  was  on  the  Thursday  of  Easter  week. 
All  the  morning  a  soft  teeming  fog  lay  over  the  fields, 
drawing  out  scents  of  growth  and  warmth  and  life. 
Worge  lay  in  the  midst  of  it  like  the  ghost  of  a  farm,  a 
dim  grey  shadow  on  the  whiteness,  and  the  voices  of  her 
men  came  muffled,  as  in  dreams.  Towards  noon  the 
sunshine  had  begun  to  eat  away  the  mist — it  grew  yel- 
lower, streakier,  and  at  last  began  to  scatter,  rolling  up 
the  fields  in  solemn  clouds,  balling  and  pilling  itself 
against  the  hedges,  melting  into  the  April  green  of  the 
woods ;  and  then  suddenly  it  was  gone — sucked  up  into 
the  sky,  sucked  down  into  the  earth,  living  only  in  a  few 
drops  in  the  cups  of  violets. 

The  Bethel  stared  away  across  the  fields  to  Puddle- 


138  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

dock.  For  some  time  its  roof,  with  the  chipped  Geor- 
gian pediment,  had  risen  above  the  mist.  Then  the 
grim  windows  had  come  out  to  stare,  and  then  the 
tombstones  that  grew  round  its  feet,  leaning  and  totter- 
ing among  the  chapel  weed. 

Tom  and  Thyrza  were  to  be  married  at  the  Bethel. 
This  had  caused  some  surprise  in  the  neighbourhood, 
as  the  Beatups  had  always  been  "  Church  " ;  but  friend- 
ship and  convenience  had  led  to  the  decision — friendship 
for  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sumption,  because  Tom  knew  him 
better  than  Mr.  Poullet-Smith,  and  was  sorry  for  him  on 
account  of  Jerry,  convenience  because  the  chapel  was 
close  at  hand,  and  the  makers  of  the  wedding  breakfast 
would  have  time  to  run  across  and  witness  the  ceremony, 
which  they  could  not  have  done  had  it  taken  place  at 
Brownbread  Street,  two  miles  away. 

The  only  one  to  whom  these  reasons  seemed  inade- 
quate was  Nell.  To  her  the  proceeding  was  not  only 
heretical  but  mean — her  affection  for  the  Church  had 
always  been  led  by  taste  rather  than  belief,  and  her  atti- 
tude, which  she  had  considered  (under  instruction)  as 
that  of  an  orthodox  Anglican,  was  in  reality  that  of  an 
Italian  peasant,  who  looks  upon  his  church  as  his  draw- 
ing-room, a  place  of  brightness  to  which  he  can  go  for 
refuge  from  the  drabness  of  every  day.  Her  opposition 
to  the  chapel  marriage  was  based  on  an  emotion  similar  to 
what  she  would  have  felt  for  the  party  who,  with  the 
chance  of  eating  and  drinking  out  of  delicate  china  in 
the  drawing-room,  chose  to  devour  their  food  out  of 
broken  pots  in  the  scullery.  She  did  not  acknowledge 
this,  any  more  than  she  acknowledged  the  motive  which 
fed  uneasily  on  Mr.  Poullett-Smith's  inevitable  disgust; 
she  talked  to  Tom  about  his  duty  as  a  Baptized  Church- 
man, and  was  both  surprised  and  grieved  to  find  that  the 


THYRZA  139 

War  seemed  to  have  destroyed  what  little  sense  of  this 
he  had  ever  had. 

"  I  tell  you  as  it's  all  different  out  there.  There  aun't 
no  church  and  chapel  saum  as  there  is  here.  You  stick 
to  church  on  Church  Parade  down  at  the  base,  but 
when  you're  up  in  the  firing  line,  there's  a  queer  kind 
of  religion  going  around.  You  hear  chaps  praying  as 
if  they  wur  swearing  and  swearing  as  if  they  wur  pray- 
ing, and  in  the  Y.M.  plaace  they  have  sort  of  holy  sing- 
songs wud  priests  and  ministers  all  mixed  up;  and  I've 
heard  a  Catholic  priest  read  the  English  funeral  over  one 
of  us,  and  I've  seen  a  rosary  on  a  dead  Baptist's  neck. 
Church  and  chapel  may  be  all  very  good  for  civvies,  but 
you  can't  go  vrothering  about  such  things  when  you're 
a  soldier." 

Nell  was  hurt  and  frightened  by  these  sayings.  She 
had  an  idea  that  any  danger  or  suffering  would  only 
make  a  man  cling  closer  to  the  Sanctuary.  It  was  terrible 
to  think  that  at  the  first  earthquake  Peter's  Rock  cracked 
to  its  foundations.  A  defiant  loyalty  inspired  her,  and  at 
first  she  made  up  her  mind  not  to  go  to  the  wedding,  but 
she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  asking  Mr.  Poul- 
lett-Smith's  advice,  and  he  thought  she  had  better  attend, 
and  pray  for  the  backsliders.  He  also  earnestly  bade  her 
distrust  any  appearance  of  cracks  in  Peter's  Rock,  and 
she  went  away  comforted,  with  shining  eyes  and  burning 
cheeks,  and  her  church  standing  firmer  than  ever  on  the 
rock  which  was  neither  Peter  nor  Christ,  but  her  love  for 
a  very  ordinary  young  man. 

So  all  the  Beatups  went  to  the  Bethel,  leaving  Worge 
locked  up  and  the  yard  in  charge  of  Elphick.  Mrs. 
Beatup  wore  her  Sunday  bonnet,  the  wheat-crop  having 
been  superseded,  contrary  to  all  the  laws  of  rotation, 
by  one  of  small  green  grapes.  Both  Ivy  and  Nell  had 


140  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

new  gowns,  Ivy  looking  squeezed  and  unnatural  in  a 
sky-blue  cloth,  which  together  with  a  pair  of  straight- 
fronted  corsets,  she  had  bought  at  a  Hastings  dress 
agency — Nell  pretty  and  demure  in  a  grey  coat  and 
skirt,  and  one  of  those  small  towny-looking  hats  which 
seemed  to  find  their  way  to  her  head  alone  in  all  Dalling- 
ton.  Mus'  Beatup,  with  Harry  and  Zacky,  smelled 
strongly  of  hair-oil  and  moth-killer,  and  Harry  had 
nearly  scrubbed  his  skin  off  in  his  efforts  to  get  out  of 
it  the  earth  of  his  new  furrows.  He  was  considered  too 
young  to  be  Tom's  best  man,  and  the  office  had  been 
at  the  last  moment  unexpectedly  filled  by  Bill  Putland. 
Bill,  now  a  sergeant,  was  home  on  seven  days'  leave, 
looking  very  brown  and  smart,  and  Polly  Sinden,  who, 
not  having  been  invited  with  her  parents  to  the  break- 
fast, had  vowed  she  would  waste  no  time  going  to  the 
chapel,  suddenly  changed  her  mind  and  appeared  in  her 
most  ceremonial  hat. 

The  chapel  was  packed  with  Sindens,  Bourners, 
Putlands,  Hubbies,  Viners,  Kadwells,  Pixes.  Mrs. 
Lamb  of  Bucksteep  was  there,  with  Miss  Marian,  but 
as  she  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  put  on  the  elegant 
clothes  in  which  she  was  seen  gliding  into  church  on  Sun- 
days, her  presence  was  regarded  as  an  affront  rather 
than  an  honour ;  Mrs.  Beatup  would  have  dressed  herself 
in  her  best  for  any  Bucksteep  wedding,  and  thought  that 
the  squire's  wife  might  have  done  the  same  for  her. 
Also,  she  came  in  very  late,  and  her  entrance  was  mis- 
taken for  that  of  the  bride  by  many  folk,  who  shot  up 
out  of  the  pew-boxes,  only  to  be  disappointed  by  the  sight 
of  Mrs.  Lamb's  faded,  powdered  features  behind  a 
spotted  veil,  and  Miss  Marian  swinging  along  after  her 
with  a  tread  like  a  policeman.  "  I  reckon  my  feet  are 
smaller  than  hers,"  thought  Nell,  "  for  all  that  I'm  onty 
a  farmer's  daughter." 


THYRZA  141 

Then  Mr.  Sumption  came  out  of  the  vestry,  and  stood 
under  the  pulpit  to  wait  for  the  bride.  He  looked  more 
like  a  figure  of  cursing  than  of  blessing — black  as  a  rook, 
with  his  thick  curly  hair  falling  into  his  eyes,  yet  not 
quite  hiding  the  furrows  which  the  plough  of  care  had 
dragged  across  his  forehead.  There  was  a  rustle  and  a 
flutter  and  a  turning  of  heads,  as  Thyrza  came  up  the 
aisle  on  the  arm  of  the  bachelor  cousin  who  was  giving 
her  away.  She  wore  a  grey  gown  like  a  March  cloud, 
and  carried  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  the  congregation 
whispered  when  they  saw  that  she  had  sleeked  her 
feathery  hair  with  water,  so  that  it  lay  smooth  behind 
her  ears,  which  were  round  and  pink  like  those  of  mice. 
"  It  didn't  look  like  Thyrza,"  everyone  said — and  per- 
haps that  was  why  Tom  was  so  loutishly  nervous,  and 
nearly  broke  Bill  Putland's  heart  with  his  fumblings  and 
stutterings. 

Thyrza  was  nervous  too,  her  head  drooped  like  an 
over-blown  rose  upon  its  stalk,  and  Mr.  Sumption's 
manner  was  not  of  the  kind  that  soothes  and  reassures. 
He  shouted  at  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  "  thumped 
at "  various  members  of  the  congregation  who  whis- 
pered or  (later  in  the  proceedings)  yawned.  He  was 
not  often  asked  to  officiate  at  weddings,  and  had  ap- 
parently decided  to  make  the  most  of  this  one,  for  he 
wound  up  with  an  address  to  the  married  pair  so  lengthy 
and  apocalyptic  that  Mrs.  Beatup  became  anxious  as 
to  the  fate  of  a  pudding  she  had  left  to  "  cook  itself," 
and  rising  noisily  in  her  pew  creaked  out  through  a 
silence  weighted  with  doom.  "  And  whosoever  hath 
not  a  wedding  garment,"  the  minister  shouted  after  her, 
"  shall  be  cast  into  the  outer  darkness,  where  there  is 
weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth  " — for  which  Mrs.  Beatup 
never  forgave  him,  as  she  had  spent  nearly  three  shil- 
lings on  retrimming  her  bonnet,  "  and  if  her  cape  wurn't 


142  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

good  enough  fur  him,  she  reckoned  he'd  never  seen  a 
better  on  the  gipsy-woman's  back." 

The  service  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the  congrega- 
tion pushed  after  the  bride  to  see  her  get  into  the  cab 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  seedy  greys,  which  would  take  her 
the  few  yards  from  the  chapel  to  the  farm.  The  break- 
fast was  to  be  at  Worge,  for  Thyrza  had  no  kin  besides 
the  bachelor  cousin,  and  it  was  considered  more  fitting 
that  her  husband's  family  should  undertake  the  social 
and  domestic  duties  of  the  occasion.  The  feast  was 
spread  in  the  kitchen,  which  had  been  decorated  with 
flags,  lent  for  the  afternoon  from  the  club-room  of  the 
Rifle  Volunteer.  The  unsugared  wedding-cake  was  a 
terrible  humiliation  to  Mrs.  Beatup,  who  felt  sure  that, 
in  spite  of  her  repeated  explanations,  everyone  would  put 
it  down  to  poverty  and  meanness  instead  of  to  the  tyranny 
of  "  Govunmunt."  However,  she  had  restored  the  bal- 
ance of  her  self-respect  by  providing  wine  (at  eighteen- 
pence  the  bottle). 

There  was  much  laughter  and  good-humour  and  the 
wit  proper  to  weddings  as  the  guests  squeezed  them- 
selves round  the  table.  Even  Mr.  Sumption's  five-minute 
grace,  in  which  he  approvingly  mentioned  more  than  one 
dish  on  the  table,  but  added  to  his  score  with  Mrs.  Beatup 
by  referring  to  the  wine  as  poison  and  "  the  forerunner  of 
thirst  in  hell,"  was  only  a  temporary  blight.  The  bride 
and  bridegroom  alone  looked  subdued,  their  sleek  heads 
drooping  together,  their  hands  nervously  crumbling  their 
food — also  Ivy,  who  was  heard  to  say  in  a  hoarse  whisper 
to  Nell,  "  If  I  can't  go  somewheres  and  taake  my  stays 
off  I  shall  bust."  However,  in  time  she  forgot  her  con- 
striction in  flirting  with  Thyrza's  bachelor  cousin,  who 
had  pale  blue  eyes,  bulging  out  as  if  in  vain  effort  to  catch 
sight  of  a  receding  chin,  and  was  exempt  by  reason  of 
ruptured  hernia  from  military  service. 


THYRZA  143 

The  usual  healths  were  drunk,  and  the  sight  of  other 
people  drinking — for  he  himself  would  take  only  water 
— seemed  to  intoxicate  Mr.  Sumption,  and  he  forgot  the 
cares  that  had  made  his  black  hair  as  ashes  on  his  head — 
his  sleepless  anxiety  for  Jerry,  and  the  crying  in  him  of 
that  day  which  shall  burn  the  stubble — and  became  merry 
as  a  corn-fed  colt,  laughing  with  all  his  big  white  teeth, 
and  paying  iron-shod  compliments  to  Thyrza  and  Ivy 
and  Nell,  and  even  Mrs.  Beatup,  who  maintained,  how- 
ever, an  impressive  indifference.  Bill  Putland  made  the 
principal  speech  of  the  afternoon,  and  looked  so  smart 
and  handsome,  with  his  hair  in  a  soaring  quiff  and  a 
trench-ring  on  each  hand,  that  Ivy  might  have  plotted  to 
substitute  his  arm  for  Ern  Honey's  round  her  waist,  if 
she  had  not  been  too  experienced  to  fail  to  realise  that 
he  was  about  the  only  man  in  Dallington  she  could  not 
win  with  her  floppy  charms. 

In  the  end  all  was  cheerful  incoherence,  and  just  as  the 
sunshine  was  losing  its  heat  on  the  yard-stones,  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  rose  to  go  away.  A  trap  from  the  Volun- 
teer would  drive  them  to  the  station,  and  they  climbed 
into  it  through  a  flying  rainbow  of  confetti,  which  stuck 
in  Thyrza's  loosening  hair,  and  spotted  her  dim  gown 
with  colours. 

Amidst  cheering  and  laughter  the  old  horse  lurched 
off,  and  soon  Thyrza's  grey  and  Tom's  dun  were  blurred 
together  in  the  distance,  which  was  already  staining  with 
purple  as  the  air  thickened  towards  the  twilight.  The 
guests  turned  back  into  the  house,  or  scattered  over  fields 
and  footpaths.  Ivy  rushed  upstairs  to  take  off  her  stays, 
and  Bill  Putland  swaggered  home  between  his  parents, 
with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole  and  plans  in  his  heart  for 
an  evening  at  Little  Worge.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Sump- 
tion went  off  with  Bourner  to  the  smithy.  The  black- 
smith had  a  shoeing  and  clipping  to  do,  and  the  minister 


144  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

would  sit  and  watch  him  in  the  red,  hoof -smelling 
warmth,  and  lend  an  experienced  hand  if  occasion 
needed.  Mus'  Beatup,  his  tongue  all  sour  with  the  Aus- 
tralian wine,  took  advantage  of  the  general  flit  to  creep 
along  the  hedge  to  the  Rifle  Volunteer,  there  to  wait  for 
the  magic  stroke  of  six  and  unlocking  of  his  paradise. 

Mrs.  Beatup  was  the  last  to  leave  the  doorstep.  She 
thought  she  could  hear  the  old  horse  clopping  on  the 
East  Road,  and  when  her  eyes  no  longer  helped  her  to 
follow  her  son,  she  used  her  ears.  She  remembered  that 
earlier  occasion  when  she  had  gone  with  him  to  the  end 
of  the  drive  and  kissed  him  there.  He  had  wanted  her 
then;  he  did  not  want  her  now — his  good-bye  kiss  had 
been  kind  yet  perfunctory.  Another  woman  had  him — 
a  woman  who  had  never  suffered  pain  or  discomfort  or 
anxiety  or  privation  for  his  sake.  Yet  her  jealousy  had 
unexpectedly  died.  Somehow,  to-day,  all  that  she  had 
suffered  for  Tom  when  she  bore  him,  nursed  him,  reared 
him  and  bred  him,  seemed  a  sufficient  reward  in  itself. 
Her  sufferings  had  made  him  what  he  was,  and  this  other 
woman  took  only  what  she,  his  mother,  had  made.  "  She 
never  went  heavy  wud  him,  nor  bore  him  in  pain,  nor  lay 
awaake  at  night  wud  his  screeching,  nor  thought  as  he'd 
die  when  he  cut  his  teeth,  nor  went  all  skeered  when  he 
took  the  fever.  ...  So  thur  aun't  no  sense  in  vrother- 
ing.  Reckon  he'll  always  be  more  mine  nor  hers,  even  if 
I  am  never  to  set  eyes  on  him  agaun." 


10 

Tom  and  Thyrza  came  back  from  Hastings  in  a  few 
days.  They  talked  as  if  they  had  been  away  for  weeks, 
and  indeed  it  had  seemed  weeks  to  them — not  that  any 
moment  had  faltered  or  draped,  but  each  had  held  the 
delight  of  hours,  and  each  hour  had  been  a  day  of  new 


THYRZA  145 

wonder.  Perhaps  the  dazzle  was  brightest  for  Tom — 
Thyrza  could  remember  an  earlier  honeymoon,  which 
had  held  no  presage  of  darkness  to  follow,  and  she 
slipped  back  pretty  easily  into  the  old  habit  of  having 
a  man  about  her;  but  for  Tom  even  the  traces  of  her 
here  and  there  in  the  room,  her  hat  thrown  down,  her 
petticoat  trailing  over  a  chair,  the  dim  scent  of  clover 
that  hung  on  her  pillow,  making  her  bed  like  a  field,  all 
joined  to  bind  him  with  her  enchantment,  to  drug  him 
with  an  ecstasy  which  had  its  sweet  foundation  in  the 
commonplace. 

When  they  came  back  to  Sunday  Street  the  honey- 
moon did  not  end.  Contrariwise,  it  seemed  to  wax  fuller 
in  the  freedom  of  the  old  ways.  Even  sweeter  than  the 
sense  of  passionate  holiday  was  the  taking  up  of  a  com- 
mon life  together,  the  daily  sharing  of  food  and  work  and 
rest,  the  doing  of  things  he  had  done  a  hundred  times 
before,  but  never  like  this.  Thyrza's  little  cottage  had 
been  hung  with  new  curtains,  and  some  unknown  hand — 
which  afterwards  unexpectedly  proved  to  be  Nell's — had 
filled  it  with  flowers  on  the  evening  of  their  return. 
Bunches  of  primroses,  violets  and  bluebells  stuffed  the 
vases  in  bedroom  and  parlour,  and  the  soft  fugitive  scent 
of  April  banks  mixed  with  the  scent  of  lath  and  plaster 
which  haunts  old  cottages,  and  the  more  spicy,  powdery 
smells  of  the  shop. 

The  days  were  warm  and  drowsy,  and  the  fields  lay 
in  a  muffle  of  sunshine,  their  distances  all  blurred  with 
heat.  Round  every  farm  the  orchards  rolled  in  pink- 
stained  clouds  of  bloom,  and  the  young  wheat  was  green 
as  a  rainy  sunset.  The  wind  that  brought  the  mutter 
of  the  guns,  brought  also  the  bleating  of  lambs  from  the 
pastures ;  scents  seemed  to  hang  and  brood  on  the  air, 
or  drift  slowly  from  the  woods — scents  of  standing  water 
and  budding  thorn,  of  hazel  leaves  hot  in  the  sun,  and 


146  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

soft  mixed  fragrances  of  gorse  and  fern,  of  cows,  of 
baking  earth,  of  currant  bushes  in  cottage  gardens.  .  .  . 

Towards  evening  Tom  and  Thyrza  usually  closed  the 
shop,  and  came  out — either  for  a  stroll  up  to  Worge  to 
see  his  family,  or  for  some  more  adventurous  excursion 
to  Brownbread  Street,  or  Furnacefield,  or  up  to  the 
North  Road  and  the  straggle  of  old  Dallington.  They 
had  one  or  two  quite  long  walks,  for  a  new  enterprise 
had  kindled  in  them  both,  and  for  the  first  time  there 
was  mystery  and  allure  in  some  shaky  signpost  at  the 
throws,  or  a  little  lane  creeping  off  secretly.  One  day 
they  walked  as  far  as  Brightling,  past  the  obelisk,  through 
the  shuttling  dimness  of  Pipers  Wood  and  up  Twelve 
Oaks  Hill  by  strange  farms  to  the  sudden  clump  of 
Brightling  among  the  trees.  They  went  into  the  church- 
yard where  the  yews  spread  shadows  nearly  as  dark  as 
their  own  blackness  and  strange  white  peacocks  perched 
on  the  tombstones,  with  shrill,  unnatural  cries.  There 
was  also  a  huge  cone-shaped  object,  built  of  damp  stones 
and  thickly  grown  with  moss,  and  Thyrza  unaccountably 
took  fright  at  this,  and  the  peacocks,  and  the  shadows  and 
the  trees,  and  walked  for  most  of  the  way  home  with 
her  head  under  Tom's  coat. 

He  did  not  often  think  of  when  this  time  should  end, 
of  the  day  that  crept  nearer  and  nearer  to  him  over 
drowsing  twilights  and  magical,  green  sunrises.  He  knew 
that  a  month  hence  all  this  delight  would  be  a  memory, 
that  between  him  and  the  spurge-thickening  fields  of  May 
would  lie  all  the  life  of  ugly  adventure  into  which  fate 
had  pitched  him — and  Thyrza  would  come  to  him  only 
on  scraps  of  paper,  in  puffs  of  scent,  in  fugitive  dreams, 
in  a  passing  light  in  some  other  girl's  eyes.  .  .  .  But 
he  was  too  simple  and  too  happy  to  let  thoughts  of  the 
future  spoil  the  present,  besides,  his  habit  of  disregarding 
the  future  now  stood  his  friend.  He  would  not  see  the 


THYRZA  147 

clover  in  bloom,  but  saw  it  in  the  green — deep,  rippling, 
gleaming,  like  the  sea — he  would  miss  the  hay,  but  now 
he  could  see  the  buttercups  under  the  moon,  so  yellow 
that  they  seemed  to  paint  the  sky  and  turn  the  moon  to 
honey;  Thyrza  might  in  a  month's  time  be  a  memory, 
belong  to  phantasy,  but  now  she  was  a  woman  solid  and 
close,  his  woman,  the  maker  of  his  home,  the  maker  of 
himself  anew.  .  .  .  Once  his  mother  had  borne  him,  and 
now  it  seemed  as  if  this  woman  had  borne  him  again, 
into  a  new  experience,  a  new  happiness,  a  new  wonder — 
so  perfect  and  complete  that  sometimes  he  almost  felt  as 
if  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  held  it  for  ever  or  for  a 
day. 

ii 

On  his  last  evening,  he  went  up  to  Worge  to  say  good- 
bye. He  felt  already  as  if  he  did  not  belong  to  the 
place.  Harry's  drastic  dealings  with  the  tilth  seemed 
to  have  taken  the  fields  away  from  him — he  no  longer 
felt  even  a  distant  guardianship  of  those  brown-ribbed 
acres  which  had  been  green  when  he  worked  on  them. 
He  felt,  too,  with  a  sense  of  estrangement,  the  dirt  and 
litter  of  the  house,  the  muddling  business  which  at  six 
o'clock  had  Ivy  swilling  out  the  scullery  and  Mrs.  Beatup 
still  struggling  with  the  washing.  Thyrza  never  did  a 
stroke  of  housework  after  dinner,  and  yet  her  morning's 
tasks  were  never  hurried ;  she  never  had  Ivy's  flushed, 
red  face  and  tousled  hair,  or  Mrs.  Beatup's  forehead 
shiny  with  sweat. 

His  family  were  conscious  of  this — conscious  that  he 
now  had  a  standard  of  comparison  by  which  to  measure 
-their  short-comings,  and  it  made  them  sulkily  suspicious 
in  their  attitude.  He  was  already  the  alien — the  bird 
that  has  left  the  nest,  the  puppy  that  has  grown  up  and 
gone  a-hunting  on  his  own.  But  this  sense  of  estrange- 


148  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

ment  only  seemed  to  make  his  parting  sadder,  for  he 
vaguely  felt  as  if  he  had  left  them  before  he  need,  had 
already  divided  himself  from  them  by  an  earlier  good- 
bye, of  which  this  was  only  the  echo  and  the  ghost. 

Mrs.  Beatup  enquired  politely  after  Thyrza,  and  sent 
Ivy  out  to  fetch  in  the  others.  Zacky  climbed  on  Tom's 
knee  and  asked  him  to  send  him  home  a  German  helmet, 
and  Harry — whose  heart  was  really  very  warm  and  lov- 
ing towards  Tom — stood  shyly  behind  his  chair  and  could 
not  speak  a  word.  Mus'  Beatup  gave  Tom  an  account 
of  the  Battle  of  the  Ancre,  but  failed  to  create  the  usual 
respectful  impression. 

"  You  see,  faather,  I  was  out  there,  and  I  know  that 
it  happened  different.  St.  Quentin  aun't  anywhere  near 
the  Rhine." 

"  There's  more'n  one  St.  Quentin,  saum  as  there's 
more'n  one  Mockbeggar,  and  more'n  one  Iden  Green. 
How  do  you  know  as  there's  no  St.  Quentin  on  the 
Rhine?  You've  never  bin  there,  and  you'll  never  be 
there,  nuther." 

"  I  reckon  I'll  be  there  before  I'm  many  months  older." 

"  You  woan't,"  said  Mus'  Beatup  solemnly,  "  it's  more 
likely  as  the  Germans  ull  be  crossing  the  River  Cuckmere 
than  as  you'll  ever  be  crossing  the  River  Rhine.  Now,  be 
quiet,  Nell,  and  a-done  do,  fur  I  tell  you  it's  bin  proved 
as  we'll  never  git  to  the  River  Rhine,  so  where's  the  sense 
of  going  on  wud  the  war,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

"  To  prevent  the  Germans  crossing  the  River  Cuck- 
mere," snapped  Nell. 

"  Oh,  doan't  go  talking  such  tar'ble  stuff,"  moaned 
Mrs.  Beatup.  "  If  the  Germans  caum  here  I'd  die  of 
fits." 

"  They  woan't  come  here,"  said  her  husband,  "  and 
we'll  never  git  there,  so  wot's  the  sense  of  all  this  vrother, 
and  giving  up  our  lads  and  ploughing  up  our  grass  and 


THYRZA  149 

going  short  of  beer,  all  to  end  where  we  started?  If 
this  war  had  bin  a-going  to  do  us  any  good,  it  ud  a-done 
it  before  now,  surelye ;  but  it's  a  lousy,  tedious,  lament- 
aable  war,  and  the  sooner  we  git  shut  of  it  the  better." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  Tom,  standing  up.  He 
felt  rather  angry  with  his  father,  who,  he  thought,  talked 
like  a  "  conscientious  objector,"  and  was  prostrating  his 
mighty  intellect  to  base  uses.  "  But  maybe  the  beer  has 
addled  him — he's  had  a  regular  souse  this  winter,  by  his 
looks." 

He  said  good-bye  to  the  family,  refusing  his  mother's 
invitation  to  stay  to  supper,  as  he  had  promised  to  take 
Thyrza  for  a  walk  that  evening.  However,  he  asked  her 
to  come  with  him  to  the  door,  as  there  was  something  he 
wanted  to  say  to  her  alone. 

Mrs.  Beatup  felt  pleased  at  this  mark  of  confidence,  but 
all  Tom  had  to  say  as  he  kissed  her  on  the  threshold 
was — 

"  Mother,  if  anything  wur  to  happen  to  me  .  .  .  out 
there,  you  know  .  .  .  you'd  be  good  to  Thyrza  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Tom — you  aun't  expecting  aught  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,  surelye — but  how  am  I  to  know  ?  " 

Her  face  wrinkled  for  crying. 

"  You  didn't  use  to  spik  lik  that.  ..." 

"  Come,  mother — be  sensible.  There  aun't  no  sense 
spikking  different,  things  being  wot  they  are.  I  dudn't 
use  to  be  married  .  .  .  it's  being  married  that  maakes  a 
chap  think  of  wot  might  happen." 

"  You'd  want  me  to  taake  Thyrza  to  live  here  ?  .   .   . " 

"  Reckon  I  wouldn't.  She'll  have  her  liddle  bit  of 
money,  thank  God,  and  maybe  a  pension  besides.  It 
aun't  money  as  I'm  thinking  of — it's  just — it's  just  as 
she'll  break  her  heart." 

"  And  I'll  break  mine,  too,  I  reckon." 

Tom  groaned. 


150  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  You're  a  valiant  help  to  me,  mother.  I  ask  you  a 
thing  to  maake  me  a  bit  easier,  and  all  you  do  is  to 
vrother  me  the  more." 

"  Doan't  you  go  abusing  your  mother,  Tom — wud 
your  last  breath.  If  Thyrza's  heart  gits  broke  I'll  give 
her  a  bit  of  mine  to  mend  it  with — but  no  good  ever 
caum  of  talking  of  such  things." 

"  I  woan't  talk  of  them  no  more.  Only,  it  had  to  be 
done — you  see,  mother,  there  might  be  a  little  'un  as 
well  as  Thyrza  ..." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  a  liddle  baby  fur  you !  " 

He  blushed — "  There  aun't  no  knowing,  and  I'd  be 
easier  if  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  but  I'd  justabout  love  a  liddle  grandchild.  You 
need  never  fret  over  that,  Tom.  I'd  give  my  days  to  a 
liddle  young  un  of  yourn." 

He  kissed  her,  and  they  parted  in  love. 


12 

He  hurried  back  to  Thyrza,  and  they  shut  up  the 
shop,  and  went  out  to  the  field  by  the  willow  pond.  A 
green,  still  dusk  lay  over  the  fields  and  sky;  no  stars 
were  out  yet,  but  the  chalky  moon  hung  low  over  the 
woods  of  Burntkitchen.  The  distant  guns  were  silent, 
only  the  bleating  of  lambs  came  from  the  Trulilows,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  burst  of  liquid,  trilling,  sucking 
melody  from  a  blackbird  among  the  willows. 

"  Hark  to  the  bird,"  said  Thyrza. 

"  Maybe  he's  got  a  nest  full  of  liddle  'uns." 

"  And  a  liddle  wife  as  can't  sing — funny  how  hen-birds 
never  sing,  Tom." 

"  Thyrza,  I  wish  as  I  cud  maake  a  home  fur  you, 
dear." 


THYRZA  151 

"  Wotever  maakes  you  think  of  that  ?  The  birds'  nest  ? 
Reckon  I've  got  a  dentical  liddle  home." 

"  But  it's  wot  you've  always  lived  in.  I  never  built 
it  for  you." 

"  Doan't  you  go  fretting  over  that.  I'd  be  lonesome 
wudout  the  shop,  Tom — I  doan't  think  as  I'll  ever  want 
to  be  wudout  the  shop.  And  we've  bin  so  happy  there 
together.  It's  saum  as  if  you'd  built  it  fur  me,  since 
you've  maade  it  wot  it  never  was  before." 

He  drew  her  close  to  him,  sleek,  soft,  heavy,  like  a 
little  cat,  and  leaned  his  cheek  against  her  hair. 

"  Reckon  I'll  always  think  of  you  in  it.  ...  I'll  see 
you  setting  up  in  the  mornun  wud  your  eyes  all  blinky 
and  your  hair  streaming  down — and  I'll  see  you  putting 
on  the  kettle  and  dusting  the  shop,  and  maybe  having 
a  bit  of  talk  over  the  counter  wud  a  luckier  chap  than 
me.  And  all  the  day  through  I'll  see  you,  and  in  the 
swale  you'll  be  putting  your  head  out  for  a  blow  of  air, 
and  there'll  be  the  lamp  in  the  window  behind  you  .  .  . 
and  then  you'll  lie  asleep,  and  the  room  ull  be  all  moony 
and  grey,  and  your  liddle  hand  ull  lie  out  on  the  blanket 
— so,  and  your  breath  ull  come  lik  the  scent  out  of  the 
grass  .  .  .  and  when  you  turn  your  body  it'll  be  lik  the 
grass  moving  in  the  wind — and  I  woan't  be  there  to  see 
or  hear  or  touch  or  smell  you." 

His  arm  tightened  round  her  breast,  and  she  leaned 
against  him  as  if  she  would  fuse  her  body  into  his,  share 
its  travels,  hardships  and  dangers.  The  stars  were  creep- 
ing slowly  into  the  sky,  dim  and  rayless  in  the  thick 
Spring  night,  which  had  put  a  purple  haze  into  the  zenith, 
and  made  the  great  moon  glow  like  a  copper  pan.  The 
fields  were  blooming  with  a  soft  yellow — the  waters  of 
the  pond  had  a  faint  gleam  on  their  stagnation,  and  the 
willows  were  like  smoke  with  a  fire  in  its  heart,  their 
boughs  pouring  down  in  misty  grey  towards  the  water, 


152  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

with  points  and  sparks  of  light  here  and  there,  as  the 
radiance  danced  among  their  leaves. 

The  swell  of  the  field  against  the  eastern  constella- 
tions was  broken  by  the  gable  of  the  shop,  rising  over 
the  hedge  and  pointing  to  the  sign  of  the  Ram.  Tom's 
England — the  England  he  would  carry  in  his  heart — 
had  widened  to  take  in  that  little  humped  roof  of  moss- 
grown  tiles.  It  held  not  only  the  willow  pond  and  the 
woman  beside  it,  but  the  home  where  together  they  had 
eaten  the  bread  and  drunk  the  cup  of  common  things. 
It  was  not  perhaps  a  very  lofty  conception  of  father- 
land— not  even  so  high  as  Harry's  conception  of  a  coun- 
try saved  by  his  plough.  Tom's  country  was  only  a  little 
field-corner  that  held  his  wife  and  his  home,  but  as  he 
sat  there  under  the  stars,  he  felt  in  his  vague,  humble 
way,  that  it  was  a  country  a  man  would  choose  to  fight 
for,  and  for  which  perhaps  he  would  not  be  unwilling 
to  die. 


PART  IV:       IVY 


TOWARDS  June  the  country  bounded  by  the  Four 
Roads  woke  to  a  certain  liveliness.  A  big  camp 
had  sprung  up  on  the  outskirts  of  Hailsham,  on 
the  ridge  above  Horse  Eye,  and  the  excitement  spread 
to  Brownbread  Street,  Sunday  Street,  Bodle  Street, 
Font's  Green,  Rushlake  Green,  and  other  Streets  and 
Greens — and  cottage  gardens  were  a-swing  with  lines  of 
khaki  shirts,  "  soldiers'  washing,"  taken  in  with  high  de- 
light at  an  army's  big  spending. 

The  girls  of  the  neighbourhood  began  to  take  new 
sweethearts  with  startling  quickness.  They  came,  these 
strangers  from  the  North,  leaving  their  girls  behind  them, 
and  the  girls  of  the  South  had  lost  their  men  to  camps 
in  France  and  Midland  towns.  No  doubt  some  kept  faith 
with  the  absent,  but  the  spirit  of  the  days  mistrusted 
space  as  it  mistrusted  time,  and  the  wisdom  of  love  took 
no  more  account  of  happiness  a  hundred  miles  away  than 
of  happiness  a  hundred  months  ahead.  There  were  woo- 
ings  and  matings  and  partings,  all  played  out  in  the  few 
spare  hours  of  a  soldier's  day,  in  the  few  spare  miles  of 
his  roaming,  under  the  thundery  thick  sky  of  a  Sussex 
summer,  when  heat  and  drench  play  their  alternate  havoc 
with  the  earth. 

In  those  days  Ivy  Beatup  lifted  up  her  head.  She 
had  had  a  dull  time  since  Kadwell  and  Viner  and  Fix 
went  out  to  France.  Thyrza's  cousin  had  turned  out 
miserable  prey — he  had  actually  proposed  himself  as  her 
husband  to  her  father  and  mother,  bringing  forward  most 

153 


154  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

satisfactory  evidence  of  a  more  than  satisfactory  income, 
derived  from  Honey's  Suitall  Stores  in  Seaford.  Thus 
the  strain  between  Ivy  and  her  family  was  increased,  and 
her  presence  at  home  became  a  burden  of  reproach.  They 
could  not  see  why  she  refused  to  bestow  her  splendid 
healthy  womanhood  on  this  poor  creature,  why  she  would 
rather  scrub  floors  and  gut  fowls  than  sit  with  folded 
hands  in  his  parlour — that  she  had  "  taken  him  on " 
merely  to  kill  time,  and  that  it  wasn't  her  fault  if  he 
chose  to  treat  her  seriously  and  make  a  fool  of  himself. 

"  You'll  die  an  old  maid,"  said  her  mother.  "  You'll 
go  to  the  bad,"  said  her  father,  and  Ivy,  who  had  no 
intention  of  doing  either,  felt  angry  and  sore,  and  longed 
to  justify  herself  by  a  new  love-affair  more  gloriously 
conducted. 

When  the  soldiers  came  to  Hailsham,  she  saw  her 
chance,  and  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it.  She 
persuaded  Harry  to  take  her  into  the  town  on  market- 
day,  and  also  found  that  she  preferred  the  "  pictures  " 
there  to  those  at  Senlac.  Polly  Sinden  refused  to  abet 
her — Bill  Putland  had  given  her  distinct  encouragement 
on  his  last  leave,  and  Polly  decided  that  in  future  dis- 
creet behaviour  would  become  her  best.  So  she  refused 
to  prowl  of  an  evening  with  Ivy,  either  in  Hailsham  or 
Senlac,  and  Ivy — since  no  girl  prowls  alone — had  to  take 
up  with  Jen  Hollowbone  of  the  Foul  Mile,  the  same  whom 
Bob  Kadwell  had  jilted,  but  who,  soothed  by  time  and  a 
new  sweetheart,  had  generously  forgiven  her  rival,  espe- 
cially as  Bob  had  once  again  transferred  his  affections, 
and  was  now  no  more  Ivy's  than  Jen's. 

The  two  girls  went  into  Hailsham  on  market-days,  and 
strolled  that  way  of  evenings,  winning  the  South  Road 
by  Stilliands  Tower  and  Puddledock,  through  the  little 
lanes  and  farm-tracks  that  were  now  all  thick  with  June 
grass,  and  smelled  of  hayseed  and  fennel.  With  grass 


IVY  155 

and  goose  foot  sticking  to  their  skirts,  and  their  hair 
spattered  with  the  fallen  blossoms  of  elderflower,  they 
would  come  out  on  the  South  Road,  where  the  dust  swept 
through  the  twilight  before  the  wind.  Warm  and  flushed, 
with  laughing  eyes,  and  arms  entwined,  and  slow  proud 
movements  of  their  bodies,  the  girls  would  stroll  past  the 
camp  gates,  leaning  clumsily  together  and  giggling.  The 
men  would  come  pouring  out  after  the  day's  routine,  seek- 
ing what  diversion  they  could  find  in  lane  or  market- 
town.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Ivy  met  Corporal  Seagrim 
of  the  Northumberland  Fusiliers. 

He  was  a  tall,  dark  giant,  well  past  thirty,  with  a  be- 
coming grizzle  in  his  hair,  over  the  temples.  His  face 
was  brown  as  a  cob-nut,  and  his  speech  so  rough  and 
uncouth  in  the  northern  way  that  at  first  Ivy  could 
hardly  understand  him.  They  met  in  the  market-place. 
He  had  a  companion  who  paired  with  Jen — an  under- 
sized little  miner,  with  a  pale  face  and  red  lips,  but  good 
enough  for  Jen,  since  she  already  had  a  boy  in  France. 
Of  course  Ivy  had  several  boys — but  they  were  no  more 
than  good  comrades,  the  interchangers  of  cheery  post- 
cards on  service  and  cheery  kisses  on  leave.  If  she  had 
had  a  boy  like  Jen's,  she  would  have  been  more  faithful 
to  him  than  Jen  was,  but  she  was  free  to  do  as  she  liked 
with  Seagrim — free  when  they  met  in  the  market-place, 
that  is  to  say,  for  by  the  time  they  said  good-bye  at  Four 
Wents  under  the  stars,  she  was  free  no  longer. 

They  had  gone  to  the  "  pictures,"  but  soon  the  moving 
screen  had  become  a  dazzle  to  Ivy,  the  red  darkness  an 
enchantment,  the  tinkling  music  an  intoxication.  Sea- 
grim's  huge  brown  hand  lay  heavily  on  hers,  and  her 
limbs  shook  as  she  leaned  against  his  shoulder,  almost  in 
silence,  since  they  found  it  hard  to  understand  each 
other's  speech.  The  man  thrilled  and  confused  her  as  no 
other  had  done — whether  it  was  his  riper  age,  or  his 


156  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

almost  perfect  physical  beauty,  or  some  strange  animal 
force  that  thrilled  his  silence  and  slow  clumsy  move- 
ments, she  did  not  seek  to  tell.  Self-knowledge  was 
beyond  her — all  she  knew  was  that  she  could  never  give 
him  the  careless  chum-like  affection  she  had  given  her 
boys,  that  between  them  there  never  would  be  those  light 
hearty  kisses  which  she  had  so  often  taken  and  bestowed. 
She  felt  herself  languid,  troubled,  full  of  a  dim  glamour 
that  brought  both  delight  and  pain.  The  music,  the  red 
glow  all  seemed  part  of  her  sensation,  though  before  she 
used  scarcely  to  notice  them,  except  to  hail  a  popular  tune 
or  an  opportunity  for  caresses. 

When  the  show  ended,  the  soldiers  offered  to  walk 
with  the  girls  as  far  as  Four  Wents,  where  the  Puddle- 
dock  lane  joins  the  South  Road.  Jen  and  the  miner 
walked  on  ahead,  she  holding  stiffly  by  his  arm,  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  one  demi-affianced  elsewhere.  Ivy 
and  Seagrim  followed.  They  did  not  speak ;  his  arm 
was  about  her,  and  every  now  and  then  he  would  stop 
and  pull  her  to  him,  dragging  her  up  against  him  in 
silent  passion,  taking  from  her  lips  kiss  after  kiss.  The 
aching  passionate  night  looked  down  on  them  from  the 
sky  where  the  great  stars  jigged  like  flames,  was  close 
to  them  in  the  hedges  where  the  scented  night-wind  flut- 
tered, and  the  dim  froth  of  chervil  and  bennet  swam 
against  the  hazels.  For  the  first  time  Ivy  seemed  to  feel 
a  hushed  yet  powerful  life  in  the  country  which  till  then 
she  had  scarcely  heeded  more  than  the  music  and  red 
lamps  of  the  show.  Now  the  scents  that  puffed  out  of 
the  grass  made  her  senses  swim,  the  soft  sough  of  the 
wind  over  the  fields,  the  distant  cry  of  an  owl  in  Tillighe 
Wood,  made  her  heart  ache  with  a  longing  that  was  half 
its  own  consummation,  made  her  lean  in  a  drowse  of 
ecstasy  and  languor  against  Seagrim's  beating  heart,  as 
he  held  her  in  the  crook  of  his  arm,  close  to  his  side. 


IVY  157 

At  the  Wents  the  parting  came,  with  a  loud  ring  of 
laughter  from  Jen,  and  a  "  pleased  to  ha'  met  yo' " 
from  the  miner.  But  Ivy  clung  to  her  man,  her  eyes 
blurred  with  tears,  her  throat  husky  and  parched  with 
love  as  she  murmured  against  his  thick  brown  neck — 

"  I'll  be  seeing  you  agaun  ?  .  .   . " 

"  Aye,  and  yo'  will,  li'l  lass,  li'l  loove  "...  he  swore, 
and  straightway  made  tryst. 

When  he  was  gone  the  night  still  seemed  full  of  him 
— his  strength  and  his  beauty  and  his  wonder. 


Ivy  was  in  love.  The  glamour  had  transmuted  her 
country  stuff  as  surely  as  it  transmutes  more  delicate 
substance.  The  spring  rain  falls  on  the  thick-stalked 
hogweed  as  on  the  spurred  columbine,  and  the  divine 
poetry  of  Love  had  given  to  her,  as  to  a  more  tender 
nature,  its  unfailing  gift  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth. 

Her  whole  being  seemed  gathered  up  into  Seagrim, 
into  a  strange  happiness  which  had  its  roots  in  pain. 
For  the  first  time  pain  and  happiness  were  united  in 
one  emotion ;  when  she  was  away  from  him,  pain  was 
the  strong  partner,  when  with  him,  then  happiness  pre- 
vailed— and  yet  not  always,  for  sometimes  in  his  presence 
her  heart  swooned  within  her,  and  her  face  would  grow 
pale  under  his  kisses  and  a  moan  stifle  in  her  throat,  and 
also,  sometimes,  when  he  was  away,  a  strange  ecstasy 
would  seize  her,  and  all  her  world  would  shine,  and  her 
common  things  of  slops  and  guts  and  mire  become  beau- 
tiful, and  the  very  thought  of  his  being  dazzle  all  the 
earth.  .  .  . 

She  never  told  him  of  this,  indeed  she  herself  scarcely 
realised  it.  She  felt  in  her  thoughts  a  soft  confusion, 


158  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

a  happy  bewilderment,  a  sweet  ache,  and  everything  was 
changed  and  everyone  spoke  with  a  new  voice — the  very 
kitchen  boards  were  not  the  same  since  she  met  Seagrim, 
and  her  family  had  queer  new  powers  of  delighting  and 
grieving  her.  "  I  must  be  in  love,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  straightway  bought  her  man  a  pound  of  the  best 
tobacco  at  the  Shop. 

She  was  very  good  to  him.  Her  hearty,  generous 
nature  found  relief  in  spending  itself  upon  him.  She 
seldom  came  to  the  meeting-place  without  some  present 
of  tobacco  or  food — she  did  him  a  dozen  little  services, 
mended  his  clothes,  marked  his  handkerchiefs,  polished 
his  buttons  and  his  boots.  Strangely  spiritual  as  the 
depths  of  her  love  might  be,  its  expression  was  entirely 
practical  and  animal.  To  serve  him  and  caress  him  was 
her  only  way  of  revealing  those  dim  marvels  that  swam 
at  the  back  of  her  mind. 

The  man  himself  was  bewitched.  Her  generosity 
touched  him,  and  it  would  be  a  strange  fellow  indeed 
who  would  not  love  to  hold  her  to  him,  sweet  and 
tumbled  like  an  overblown  flower,  and  take  the  softness 
of  her  parted  lips  and  sturdy  neck.  Ivy  was  like  the 
month  in  which  he  wooed  her — July,  thick,  drowsy, 
blooming,  ripe,  lacking  the  subtlety  of  spring  and  the  dig- 
nity of  autumn,  but  more  satisfying  to  the  common  man 
who  prefers  enjoyment  to  promise  or  memory. 

They  met  most  evenings,  he  walking  eastward,  she 
westward,  to  Four  Wents;  there,  where  the  tall  stile 
stands  between  two  shocks  of  fennel,  they  would  lean 
together  in  the  first  charm  of  tryst,  the  dusk  thicken- 
ing round  them,  hazing  road  and  fields  and  barns  and 
bushes,  their  own  faces  swimming  up  out  of  it  to  each 
other's  eyes,  like  reflections  in  a  pond — hers  round  and 
flushed  under  her  tousled  hair,  like  a  poppy  in  a  barley- 
field,  his  brown  and  predatory  with  its  hawk-like  nose  and 


IVY  159 

piercing  eye  under  the  grizzled  curls.  Then  the  dusk 
would  smudge  them  into  each  other  and  they  would 
become  one  in  the  swale.  .  .  . 

He  led  her  up  and  down  the  little  rutted  lanes,  under 
a  violet  sky  where  the  stars  were  red  and  the  moon  was 
a  golden  horn.  The  thick  fanning  of  the  July  air  brought 
scents  of  hayseed  and  flowering  bean,  the  miasmic  per- 
fume of  meadowsweet,  the  nutty  smell  of  ripening  corn, 
and  the  drugged  sweetness  of  hopfields.  All  round  them 
would  hang  the  great  tender  silence  of  night,  the  pas- 
sionate stillness  of  the  earth  under  the  moon,  and  their 
poor  broken  words  only  seemed  a  part  of  that  silence. 
..."  My  loove,  my  li'l  lass."  .  .  .  "  I  love  you  unac- 
countable, Willie."  ..."  Coom  closer,  my  dear."  .  .  . 
The  wind  rustled  over  the  orchards  of  Soul  Street,  and 
the  horns  of  the  moon  were  red,  and  the  sky  thick  and 
dark  as  a  grape,  when  they  came  back  to  the  tall  stile  at 
the  throws,  and  parted  there  with  caresses  which  love 
made  groping  and  vows  which  love  choked  to  whispers. 

On  Sundays  they  met  more  ceremonially,  pacing  up  and 
down  the  road  at  Sunday  Street,  from  the  shop  to  the 
Rifle  Volunteer — which  was  the  parade-ground  of  those 
girls  of  the  parish  who  had  sweethearts.  Here  Jen  Hol- 
lowbone  showed  her  Ted  and  Polly  Sinden  her  Bill,  and 
Ivy  Beatup  showed  her  Willie,  walking  proudly  on  his 
arm,  smiling  with  all  her  teeth  at  the  girls  whose  sweet- 
hearts were  away  and  at  the  girls  who  had  no  sweet- 
hearts at  all. 

She  even  brought  him  to  Worge  once  or  twice,  but 
her  family  did  not  like  him.  This  was  partly  because 
they  were  still  the  champions  of  the  rejected  Era  Honey, 
and  partly  because  they  resented  his  gruff  manner,  and 
harsh,  rumbling  speech.  He  did  not  shine  in  company 
— he  was  for  ever  boasting  the  superiority  of  Northum- 
berland ways  over  those  of  Sussex,  and  even  told  Mus' 


160  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Beatup  that  he  "  spake  like  a  fule  "  on  American  Inter- 
vention. He  horrified  Nell  by  drinking  out  of  his  saucer 
— a  depth  below  any  of  the  family's  most  degrading  col- 
lapses— and  offended  Harry  and  Zacky  by  taking  no 
notice  of  them  or  interest  in  the  farm.  Indeed  the  only 
being  at  Worge  he  seemed  to  care  about — not  excepting 
Ivy,  whom  he  almost  ignored  on  these  occasions — was 
Nimrod,  the  old  retriever;  to  him  alone  he  would  smile 
and  be  friendly,  hugging  the  old  black  head  against  his 
tunic,  and  patting  and  slapping  Nim's  sides  till  he  became 
demoralised  by  this  unaccustomed  fondling  and  frisked 
about  with  muddy  paws — which  was  all  put  down  to  Sea- 
grim  for  unrighteousness  in  his  account  with  Mrs. 
Beatup. 

"  Wot  d'you  want  wud  un,  Ivy  ?  "  she  asked  once — 
"  a  gurt  dark  tedious  chap  lik  that,  wud  never  a  good 
word  for  a  soul — not  even  yourself,  he  doan't  sim  to 
have — and  a  furriner  too." 

"  He  aun't  a  furriner." 

"  He  aun't  from  these  parts,  like  some  I  cud  naum. 
You're  a  fool  if  you  say  no  to  a  valiant  chap  lik  Ernie 
Honey  and  taake  up  wud  a  black  unfriendly  feller  as 
no  one  here  knows  naun  about." 

"  Well,  he  doan't  have  to  have  his  inside  tied  up  wud 
a  truss  lik  a  parcel  of  hay,  caase  it  falls  out." 

"  You  hoald  your  rude  tongue.  Wot  right  have  you 
to  know  aught  of  Ern  Honey's  inside?  And  better  a 
inside  lik  a  parcel  of  hay  than  a  heart  lik  a  barnyard 
stone.  He's  a  hard-hearted  man,  your  sojer — cares  for 
naun  saave  a  pore  heathen  dog  wot  he  brings  spannelling 
into  the  kitchen." 

"  He  cares  for  me." 

"It  doan't  sim  lik  it  wud  his  'Eh,  lass? — eh,  lass?' 
whensumdever  you  spik.  Reckon  you  maake  yourself 
cheap  as  rotten  straw  when  you  git  so  stuck  on  him." 


IVY  161 

"Who  said  I  wur  stuck  on  him? — he  aun't  the  fust 
I've  kept  company  with." 

"  No,  he  aun't.  You're  parish  talk  wud  your  goings 
on.  You'll  die  an  oald  maid  in  the  wark'us,  and  bring 
us  to  shaum — and  Harry  ull  bring  us  to  auction,  and  Tom 
ull  be  killed  by  a  German,  and  bring  us  to  death  in  sor- 
row. All  my  children  have  turned  agaunst  me  now  I'm 
old,"  and  Mrs.  Beatup  began  to  cry  into  her  apron. 

Ivy's  big  arms  were  round  her  at  once.  .  .  . 


Relations  between  Ivy  and  Nell  had  always  been  a 
little  uneasy.  Ivy  was  tolerant  and  good-humoured,  but 
could  not  always  hide  the  contempt  which  she  felt  for 
Nell's  refinements,  while  Nell,  though  she  did  not  despise 
Ivy,  hated  her  coarseness — particularly  since  she  could 
never  see  it  through  her  own  eyes  alone,  but  through 
others  to  which  it  must  appear  even  grosser  than  to 
herself. 

One  evening  Nell  came  in  from  school,  and  as  she 
took  off  her  hat  before  the  bit  of  glass  on  the  kitchen 
wall,  could  see  the  reflection  of  Ivy  munching  her  tea, 
which  she  had  started  late,  after  a  day's  washing.  Her 
sleeves  were  still  rolled  up,  showing  her  strong  arms, 
white  as  milk  to  the  elbow,  then  brown  as  a  rye-bread 
crust.  Her  meadow-green  dress  was  unbuttoned,  as  if 
to  give  her  big  breast  play,  and  her  neck  was  thick  and 
white,  its  modelling  shown  by  bluish  shadows.  "  She's  a 
whacker !  "  thought  Nell  angrily  to  herself,  then  sud- 
denly turned  round  and  said — 

"  Jerry  Sumption's  here." 

"  Lork !  "  said  Ivy,  biting  off  a  crust. 

"  I  met  him,"  continued  Nell,  "  and  he  knows  you're 
going  with  Seagrim." 


162  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"Well,  wot  if  he  does?" 

"  It  might  be  awkward  for  you.  He  seemed  very  much 
upset  about  it." 

"  Wot  fur  dud  you  go  and  tell  un  ?  " 

Nell  sniffed. 

"  I  didn't  tell  him.  But  your  love-making  isn't  exactly 
private." 

"  No  need  fur  it  to  be." 

"  I  don't  know — it  might  be  better  for  you  as  well  as 
for  us  if  the  whole  parish  didn't  know  so  much  about 
your  affairs." 

"  And  I   reckon  you  think  as  no  one  knows   about 
yourn  ?  " 
.    Nell  flushed— 

"  Leave  my  affairs  alone.  I've  none  for  you  to  meddle 
with." 

"  Oh,  no — you  aun't  sweet  on  Parson — not  you,  and 
nobody  knows  you  go  after  un !  " 

"  Adone-do  wud  your  vulgar  talk,"  cried  Nell  furi- 
ously, forgetting  in  her  anger  to  clip  and  trim  her  blurry 
Sussex  speech.  "  I've  warned  you  about  young  Sump- 
tion, and  it  aun't  my  fault  if  you  have  trouble." 

"  There  woan't  be  no  trouble.  I've  naun  to  do  wud 
Jerry  nor  he  wud  me — I  got  shut  of  him  a  year  agone." 

All  the  same,  she  was  not  so  easy  as  her  words  made 
out.  It  was  evil  luck  which  had  brought  Jerry  Sump- 
tion back  at  just  this  time.  He  was  bound  to  be  a  pest 
anyhow,  though  perhaps  if  his  jealousy  had  not  been 
roused  he  might  have  had  enough  sense  to  keep  away. 
Now  he  would  most  likely  come  and  make  a  scene. 
Even  though  she  would  not  be  his  girl,  he  could  never 
bear  to  see  her  another  man's ;  he  might  even  try  to 
make  mischief  between  her  and  Seagrim — be  hemmed 
to  the  gipsy!  At  all  events  he  would  be  sure  to  come 
and  kick  up  trouble. 


IVY  163 

She  was  partly  right.  Jerry  came,  but  he  did  not 
make  a  scene.  He  turned  up  the  next  morning,  looking 
strangely  dapper  and  subdued.  Ivy  interviewed  him 
in  the  outer  kitchen,  where  she  was  blackleading  the 
fireplace.  It  spoke  much  for  the  sincerity  of  his  passion 
that  he  had  hardly  ever  seen  his  charmer  in  a  presentable 
state — she  was  always  either  scrubbing  the  floor,  or 
cooking  the  dinner,  or  washing  the  clothes,  or  cleaning 
the  hearth.  To-day  there  was  a  big  smudge  of  black 
across  her  cheek,  and  her  hair  was  tumbling  over  ears 
and  forehead,  from  which  she  occasionally  swept  it  back 
with  a  smutty  hand. 

Contrariwise,  Jerry  was  neat  and  dressed  out  as  she 
had  never  seen  him.  His  puttees  were  carefully  wound, 
his  buttons  were  polished,  his  tunic  was  brushed,  his 
hair  was  sleek  with  water.  He  stood  looking  at  her  in 
his  furtive  gipsy  way,  which  somehow  suggested  a  cast 
in  his  fine  eyes  which  were  perfect  enough. 

"Ivy  .   .   ." 

She  had  decided  that  he  should  be  the  first  to  speak, 
and  had  let  the  silence  drag  on  for  two  full  minutes. 

"Well?" 

"  I've  come — I've  come  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  I'll  forgive  you  sure  enough,  Jerry  Sumption — but 
I  aun't  going  wud  you  no  more,  if  that's  wot  you  mean." 

"  You've  taken  up  with  another  fellow." 

"  That's  no  concern  of  yourn." 

"  But  tell  me  if  it's  truth  or  lie?  " 

"  It's  truth." 

"  And  you  love  him  ?  " 

"  Maybe  I  do." 

Jerry's  face  went  the  colour  of  cheese. 

"  Then  you'll  never  come  with  me  again,  I  reckon." 

"  I  justabout  woan't " — Ivy  sat  up  on  her  heels  and 
looked  straight  into  his  dodging  eyes — "  I'll  forgive  you 


164.  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

all,  but  I'll  give  you  naun — d'you  maake  that  out?  I 
cud  never  have  loved  you,  and  you've  shown  me  plain  as 
mud  as  you  aun't  the  kind  of  chap  a  girl  can  go  with 
for  fun.  If  you're  wise  you'll  kip  awaay — we  can't  be 
friends.  So  you  go  and  find  some  other  girl  as  ull  do 
better  fur  you  than  I  shud  ever." 

"If  there  hadn't  been  this  chap " 

"  It  ud  have  bin  the  saum.  I'm  not  your  sort,  my 
lad,  for  all  you  think." 

"  Will  this  other  chap  marry  you?  " 

"  I'll  tell  naun  about  un.  He's  no  consarn  of  yourn, 
as  I've  said  a  dunnamany  times." 

"  Ivy,  when  I  was  in  France,  I  thought  to  myself — 
'  Maybe  if  I'm  sober  and  keep  straight,  she'll  have  me 
back.' " 

"  I'm  middling  glad  you  thought  it,  Jerry,  fur  it  wur 
a  good  thought.  You'll  lose  naun  by  kipping  straight 
and  sober,  so  you  go  on  wud  it,  my  lad." 

"  I  don't  care,  if  I  can't  get  you." 

"  That's  unsensible  talk.  I'm  not  the  only  girl  that's 
going — thur's  many  better." 

"  Reckon  there  is — reckon  I'll  get  one  for  every  day 
of  the  week.  No  need  to  tell  me  girls  are  cheap — I 
only  thought  I'd  like  one  that  wasn't,  for  a  change." 

"  Doan't  you  talk  so  bitter." 

"  I  talk  as  I  feel.    You've  settled  with  this  chap,  Ivy?  " 

"  I've  told  you  a  dunnamany  times.  Wot  maakes  you 
so  thick?" 

He  did  not  answer,  but  turned  away,  and  walked  out 
of  the  room  with  a  stealthy,  humble  step,  like  a  beaten 
dog.  Ivy's  heart  smote  her — she  could  not  let  him  go 
without  a  kind  word. 

"  Jerry !  "  she  called  after  him.  But  he  did  not  turn 
back — and  then,  unaccountably,  she  felt  frightened. 


IVY  165 


It  was  odd  that  Jerry's  cowed  retreat  should  have 
caused  her  more  fear  than  his  swaggering  aggression — 
nevertheless,  all  that  day  she  could  not  get  rid  of  her  un- 
easiness, and  with  the  arbitrariness  of  superstition  linked 
the  evening's  catastrophe  with  the  earlier  foreboding. 

She  had  run  dawn  to  the  Shop,  to  buy  some  washing 
soda,  and  have  a  chat  with  Thyrza,  and  on  her  return 
was  met  in  the  passage  by  Nell,  who  looked  at  her  hard 
and  said — 

"  There's  someone  come  to  see  you — a  Mrs.  Seagrim." 

Ivy's  heart  jumped.  She  wished  that  there  had  not 
been  quite  such  a  wind  to  blow  about  her  hair,  and  that 
she  had  had  time  to  mend  the  hole  in  her  skirt  that  morn- 
ing. If  Willie's  mother  had  come  to  inspect  his  choice 
.  .  .  howsumdever,  he  had  often  spoken  of  his  mother 
as  a  kind  soul. 

But  the  woman  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Beatup  was 
only  a  few  years  older  than  Ivy — a  tall,  slim  creature, 
with  reddish  hair,  and  a  beautiful  pale  face.  She  was 
dressed  like  a  lady,  too,  in  a  neat  coat  and  skirt,  with 
gloves  and  cloth-topped  boots.  Ivy  felt  the  blood  drain 
from  her  heart,  and  yet  she  had  anticipated  Mrs.  Beatup 
with  no  definite  thought  when  the  latter  said — 

"  Ivy,  this  is  Corporal  Seagrim's  wife." 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  Ivy  heard  someone  say,  and 
it  must  have  been  herself,  for  the  next  moment  she  was 
shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Seagrim. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  the  two 
women  stared  at  Ivy,  then  the  corporal's  wife  remarked, 
with  a  North-country  accent  that  came  startlingly  from 
her  elegance,  that  it  was  gey  dirty  weather. 

"  Thicking  up  fur  thunder,  I  reckon,"  said  Mrs. 
Beatup. 


166  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Yo  get  it  gey  thick  and  saft  down  here,  A'm  think- 
ing." 

"  Unaccountable,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup,  and  squinted 
nervously  at  Ivy. 

Ivy's  wits  had  at  first  been  blown  to  the  four  winds, 
and  she  sat  during  this  conversation  with  her  mouth 
open,  but  gradually  resolve  began  to  form  in  her  sickened 
heart;  she  felt  her  brain  and  body  stiffen — she  would 
fight.  .  .  . 

"  A  chose  a  bad  week  t'coom  Sooth,"  started  Mrs. 
Seagrim,  "  but  'twas  all  the  choice  A  had — A  hae  t'roon 
my  man's  business  now  he's  sojering.  Yo'  mither  tells 
me,  Miss  Beatup,  as  nane  here  knaws  he's  marrit.  But 
marrit  he  is,  and  has  twa  bonny  bairns." 

"  I  know,"  said  Ivy — "  he  toald  me." 

"  He  toald  you !  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  You  said 
naun  to  me  about  it." 

"  I  disremember.    He  wur  only  here  the  twice." 

Mrs.  Seagrim  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  Weel,  maist  folk  didn't  sim  t'knaw.  A  took  a  room 
in  Hailsham  toon,  and  the  gude  woman  said  as  how 
t'Corporal  had  allus  passed  for  a  bachelor  man,  and 
was  coorting  a  lass  up  t'next  village." 

"  Maybe  she  thinks  he  wur  a-courting  me,"  snapped 
Ivy,  "  but  he  dud  naun  of  the  like.  He  toald  me  he 
was  married  the  fust  day  I  set  eyes  on  un." 

"  Weel,  that  was  on'y  reet.  So  many  of  those  marrit 
sojer  chaps  go  and  deceive  puir  lasses.  A  hear  there's 
been  a  mort  of  trouble  and  wickedness  done  that 
way." 

"  Maybe,"  said  Ivy — "  women  are  gurt  owls,  most  of 
them." 

"  And,"  continued  Mrs.  Seagrim,  "  it's  only  reet  and 
kind  of  the  wives  of  such  men  to  go  and  tell  any  poor 
body  as  is  like  to  be  deceived  by  them." 


IVY  167 

"  That's  true  enough.  But  your  trouble's  thrown  away 
on  me.  I  knew  all  about  un  from  the  fust." 

"  Weel,  A've  done  ma  duty  ony  way,"  and  Mrs.  Sea- 
grim  rose,  extending  a  gloved  hand,  "  and  A'm  reet  glad 
as  Seagrim  was  straight  with  yo',  when  he  seems  to  have 
passed  as  single  with  everyone  else." 

"  It  must  be  a  tar'ble  trial  to  have  a  man  lik  that," 
said  Ivy.  "  He'll  cost  you  a  dunnamany  shilluns  and 
pounds  if  you've  got  to  go  trapesing  after  him  every- 
wheres,  to  tell  folk  he's  wed." 

Mrs.  Seagrim  smiled. 

When  Ivy  had  shown  her  out  of  the  front-door,  she 
would  have  liked  to  escape  to  her  bedroom,  but  Mrs. 
Beatup  filled  the  passage. 

"  Ivy — you  might  have  toald  me.  I  maade  sure  as 
he'd  deceived  you." 

"  And  I  tell  you  he  dudn't.  He  toald  me  he  wur  wed, 
and  about  his  childer,  and  that  dress-up  hop-pole  of  a 
wife  of  his'n." 

"  And  you  went  walking  out  wud  a  married  man,  for 
all  the  Street  to  see !  " 

"  Why  not  ?    There  wur  no  harm  done." 

"  No  harm !    I  tell  you  it  wurn't  simly." 

"  He.'d  no  friends  in  these  parts,  and  a  man  Hks  a 
woman  he  can  talk  to." 

"  He'd  got  his  wife,  surelye." 

"  Not  hereabouts.  He  wur  middling  sick  wud  lone- 
someness." 

Mrs.  Beatup  sniffed. 

"  Well,  you  can  justabout  git  shut  of  him  now.  Your 
faather  and  me  woan't  have  you  walking  out  wud  a 
married  man.  So  maake  up  your  mind  to  that." 

Ivy  muttered  something  surly  and  thick — the  tears 
were  already  in  her  throat,  and  pushing  past  her  mother, 
she  ran  upstairs. 


168  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Once  alone,  her  feelings  overcame  her,  and  she  threw 
herself  upon  the  bed,  sobbing  with  grief  and  rage.  Sea- 
grim  had  deceived  her,  had  meant  to  deceive  her — that 
was  quite  plain.  Though  he  had  never  definitely  spoken 
of  marriage,  he  had  quite  definitely  posed  to  her  as  a 
single  man.  She  gathered  from  Mrs.  Seagrim  that  he 
made  a  habit  of  these  escapades.  Lord !  what  a  fool 
she  had  been — and  yet,  why  should  she  have  doubted 
him  whom  she  loved  so  utterly? 

Her  hair,  matted  into  her  eyes,  was  soaked  with  tears, 
as  she  rolled  her  head  to  and  fro  on  the  pillow,  thinking 
of  the  man  she  had  loved,  loved  still,  and  yet  hated 
and  despised.  He  had  played  her  false — she  was  un- 
able to  get  over  this  fact,  as  a  more  sophisticated  nature 
might  have  done.  Her  confidence,  her  devotion,  her  pas- 
sion, he  had  paid  with  treachery  and  lies.  She  had  not 
^fought  her  battle  with  Mrs.  Seagrim  in  his  defence — at 
least  not  principally — she  had  fought  it  to  save  herself 
from  humiliation  in  the  eyes  of  this  woman,  of  her 
mother,  and  of  Sunday  Street. 

Yet  she  cried  to  him  out  of  the  deep — "  Oh,  Willie, 
Willie  ..."  She  thought  of  him  in  his  strength  and 
grizzled  beauty — she  remembered  particularly  his  neck 
and  his  hands.  "Oh,  Willie,  Willie  ..."  She  had 
loved  him  as  she  had  loved  no  other  man.  No  other 
man  had  filled  the  day  and  the  night  and  brought  the 
stars  to  earth  for  her  and  made  earth  a  shining  heaven. 
Her  love  was  crude  and  physical,  but  it  is  one  of  the 
paradoxes  of  love  that  the  greater  its  materialism  the 
greater  its  spiritual  power,  that  passion  can  open  a  mystic 
paradise  to  which  romance  and  affection  have  not  the 
key.  Ivy  had  seen  the  heavens  open  to  this  clumsy  soldier 
of  hers — to  this  man  who  had  tricked  her,  bubbled  her, 
brought  her  to  shame. 

She  wondered  if  he  knew  of  his  wife's  visit — perhaps 


IVY  169 

he  was  with  her  now.  Did  he  love  her?  .  .  .  and  those 
two  youngsters  up  in  the  North — a  moan  dragged  from 
her  lips.  His  wife  was  dressed  like  a  lady,  but  she  talked 
queer,  though  maybe  they  all  talked  like  that  up  North. 
Had  she  believed  Ivy  when  she  said  she  had  always 
known  Seagrim  was  a  married  man?  Had  her  mother 
believed  her?  Would  Sunday  Street  believe  her? 

She  sat  up  on  the  bed,  and  pushed  the  damp  hair 
back  from  her  eyes.  She  would  face  them  out,  anyhow. 
No  one  should  point  at  her  in  scorn — or  at  Seagrim, 
either,  even  though  she  could  never  trust  him  or  love 
him  again.  She  would  give  the  lie  to  all  who  mocked 
or  pitied.  No  one  should  pry  into  her  aching  heart. 
Ivy  Beatup  wasn't  the  one  to  be  poor-deared  or  serve- 
her-righted.  She  crossed  the  room,  and  plunged  her  face 
into  the  basin,  slopping  her  tear-stained  cheeks  with  cold 
water.  Then  she  brushed  back  and  twisted  up  her  hair, 
smoother  her  gown,  and  went  downstairs  with  no  traces 
of  her  grief  save  an  unnatural  tidiness. 


Ivy  held  her  bold  front  for  the  rest  of  that  week.  Her 
secret  portion  of  sorrow  and  craving  she  kept  hid.  Her 
floors  were  scrubbed  and  her  pans  scoured  no  worse  for 
lack  of  that  glory  which  makes  like  the  silver  wings  of 
a  dove  those  that  have  lien  among  the  pots.  .  .  .  She 
still  had  strength  to  cling  to  the  empty  days,  to  serve 
through  the  meaningless  routine  that  had  once  been  a 
joyous  rite. 

Everyone  had  heard  about  Seagrim  now,  and  had  also 
heard  that  Ivy  Beatup  had  not  been  deceived,  but  had 
known  about  his  wife  from  the  first.  Some  believed  her, 
accounting  for  her  silence  by  the  fact  that  her  family 
would  have  interfered  had  they  known  she  was  walking 


170  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

out  with  a  married  man.  These  for  the  most  part  called 
Ivy  Beatup  a  bad  lot,  though  her  sister-in-law  Thyrza 
stood  up  for  her,  declaring  Ivy's  friendship  with  the 
Corporal  could  only  have  been  innocent  and  respectable — 
but  of  course  Thyrza  was  now  allied  with  the  Beatups, 
and  would  be  anxious  for  their  good  name.  A  large  pro- 
portion of  the  street,  however,  did  not  believe  Ivy's  ver- 
sion of  the  story — they  would  have  her  tricked,  deluded — 
betrayed,  they  hinted — and  found  an  even  greater  delight 
in  pity  than  in  blame. 

All  joined  in  wondering  what  she  would  do  the  follow- 
ing Sunday.  She  would  not  have  the  face  to  parade 
the  man  as  usual.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Seagrim  was  still  at 
Hailsham — perhaps,  even  if  she  was  not,  the  Corporal 
would  not  dare  show  his  face  after  what  had  happened 
or,  if  he  did,  surely  the  girl  would  not  be  so  brazen  as 
to  trot  him  out  now  that  she  knew  all  the  parish  knew 
she  was  a  bad  lot — or  a  poor  victim. 

However,  when  Sunday  came,  Ivy  appeared  in  her  best 
blue  dress,  and  on  Seagrim's  arm,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Her  eyes  were  perhaps  a  little  over-bright  with 
defiance,  her  cheeks  a  little  overfed  for  even  such  a  full- 
blown peony  as  her  face,  but  her  manner  was  assured,  if 
not  very  dignified,  and  her  grins  as  many-toothed  as  on 
less  doubtful  occasions. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Ivy  had  not  meant  to  offer  such  a 
public  challenge  to  a  local  opinion.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  that  Seagrim  would  not  appear  at  all,  or  in  a 
very  subdued  condition.  However,  on  Friday  she  had 
a  letter  of  the  usual  loving  kind,  excusing  his  absence 
during  the  week  on  the  score  of  extra  duty  and  asking 
her  to  meet  him  at  Worge  gate  next  Sunday  morning — 
"  with  her  boy's  fondest  love  "  and  a  row  of  kisses. 

Ivy's  teeth  bit  deep  into  her  lip  as  she  read  this  letter. 
He  was  still  deceiving  her,  though  now,  thank  the  Lord, 


IVY  171 

he  was  also  deceived  himself.  He  did  not  know  his  wife 
had  been  to  see  her,  and  doubtless  Mrs.  Seagrim  had  now 
gone  back  to  "  the  business  " — a  corn-chandler's  in  Aln- 
wick.  Ivy  wondered  why  she  had  kept  her  own  counsel, 
but  no  doubt  the  "  dressed-up  hop-pole  "  knew  best  how 
to  deal  with  her  man.  If  she  betrayed  her  plot  it  might 
have  led  to  friction  between  an  affectionate  husband  and 
wife,  and  she  probably  felt  that  she  had  "  settled  "  Ivy. 

The  girl's  blood  ran  thick  with  humiliation — both  the 
man  and  the  woman  had  shamed  her.  Doubtless  they 
loved  each  other  well,  though  he,  with  a  man's  greediness, 
had  wanted  another  woman  in  her  absence.  He  could 
never  have  meant  to  marry  Ivy — his  intentions  must 
always  have  been  vague  or  dishonourable.  As  for  the 
wife,  having  spent  some  of  the  cash  left  over  from  her 
clothes,  in  running  down  South  to  look  after  him,  she 
had  no  doubt  been  satisfied  with  warning  Ivy  and  coaxing 
her  husband,  and  had  then  gone  back  to  her  flourishing 
shop.  True  that  this  letter  hardly  pointed  to  the  success 
of  her  tactics,  but  Ivy  knew  too  much  about  men  to  attach 
great  importance  to  it — Seagrim  was  just  the  sort  of  man 
who  would  have  a  girl  wherever  he  went,  and  yet  always 
keep  the  first  place  in  his  heart  for  the  woman  who  had 
also  his  name.  She,  Ivy,  was  probably  only  a  secondary 
attachment  to  fill  the  place  of  the  other,  and  no  doubt  in 
that  other's  absence,  he  would  make  every  effort  to  keep 
her — but  she  was  a  stop-gap,  an  interlude,  to  him  who 
had  been  her  all,  and  filled  the  spare  moments  of  one  who 
had  filled  her  life. 

She  forced  herself  to  bite  down  on  this  bitter  truth, 
and  swallowed  it — and  it  gave  her  strength  for  the 
course  she  meant  to  take. 

She  found  Seagrim  leaning  against  Worge  gate,  suck- 
ing the  knob  of  his  swagger  stick,  and  gazing  at  her  with 
shining  long-lashed  eyes  of  grey.  For  a  moment  the  sight 


172  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

of  him  there,  his  greeting,  the  husky  tones  love  put  into 
his  voice,  his  sunburnt,  hawk-like  strength,  all  combined 
to  make  her  falter.  But  she  was  made  of  too  solid  stuff 
to  forget  his  callous  deception  of  her,  which  he  still  main- 
tained, drawing  her  arm  through  his  with  a  few  glib  lies 
about  extra  duty  and  the  sergeant.  Contempt  for  him 
stabbed  her  heart  and  eyes,  and  for  a  few  moments  she 
could  neither  look  at  him  nor  speak. 

They  went  to  their  usual  parade  ground,  marching 
to  and  fro  between  the  Bethel  and  the  Shop,  and  Ivy's 
confidence  revived  with  her  defiance  of  public  opinion. 
"  They'll  see  I  doan't  care  naun  fur  wot  they  think," 
she  said  to  herself,  and  met  boldly  the  outraged  eyes 
of  Bourners  and  Sindens  and  Putlands.  It  was  a  hot 
day,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  dust  in  the  air,  which 
felt  heavy  and  thick.  The  sun  was  dripping  on  Sunday 
Street,  making  the  red  roofs  swim  and  dazzle  in  a  yellow 
haze;  the  leaves  of  the  big  oaks  by  the  forge  drooped 
with  dust,  and  the  Bethel's  stare  was  hot  and  angry,  as 
if  its  lidless  eyes  ached  in  the  glow. 

Ivy  decided  that  she  might  now  end  her  ordeal  of  the 
burning  ploughshare.  She  had  strutted  up  and  down 
a  dozen  times  in  front  of  her  neighbours,  defying  their 
gossip,  their  blame  and  their  pity.  "  I  done  it — now  I 
can  git  shut  of  un,"  and  her  gaze  of  mixed  pain  and 
contempt  wandered  up  to  his  brown  face  as  he  walked 
beside  her,  talking  unheard  in  his  booming  Northumber- 
land voice. 

"  It's  middling  hot  in  the  Street — let's  git  into  the 
spinney." 

He  kindled  at  once — it  would  be  good  to  sit  with  her 
on  trampled  hazel  leaves,  to  lie  with  their  faces  close 
and  the  green  spurge  waving  round  their  heads  in  a 
filter  of  sunlight.  Usually  these  suggestions  came  from 
him,  by  the  rules  of  courting,  but  he  loved  her  for  the 


IVY  173 

boldness  which  could  break  all  rule  even  as  it  lacked 
all  craft.  He  slid  his  hand  along  her  arm,  and  pressed 
it,  with  joy  at  the  quiver  she  gave. 

The  Twelve  Pound  spinney  stood  about  thirty  yards 
back  from  the  Street,  behind  the  Bethel,  and  was  reached 
by  a  little  path  and  a  stile  opposite  the  Horselunges.  As 
they  pased  the  inn,  Ivy  saw  Mrs.  Breathing  opening  the 
door  and  the  shutters  for  the  Sunday's  short  traffic,  and 
at  the  same  time  saw  ahead  of  her  a  dusty  khaki  figure 
ambling  towards  the  sign  with  the  particular  padding 
unsoldierly  tread  of  Jerry  Sumption. 

"  He's  on  the  drink,  now's  he  knows  as  he  can't  git 
me,"  she  thought — "  the  bad  gipsy !  "  Then  a  feeling 
of  regret  and  hopelessness  came  over  her.  Here  were 
two  men  whose  love  she  had  muddled — one  who  had 
hurt  her  and  one  whom  she  had  hurt.  Was  love  all 
hurting  and  sorrow?  For  the  first  time  the  careless 
game  of  a  girl's  years  became  almost  a  sinister  thing. 
Her  hand  dragged  at  Seagrim's  arm,  as  if  unconsciously 
and  despite  herself  her  body  appealed  to  the  man  her 
soul  despised  .  .  .  then  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and  looked 
into  Jerry's  as  he  passed,  trotting  by  with  hanging  head 
and  queer  look,  like  a  mad  dog  .  .  .  yes,  love  was  a 
tar'ble  game. 

The  black,  still  shadows  of  Twelve  Pound  Wood 
swallowed  her  and  Seagrim  out  of  the  glare.  The  clop 
of  hoofs  and  bowl  of  wheels  on  the  Street  came  as  from 
a  great  way  off,  and  the  hum  of  poised  and  darting  in- 
sects, thick  among  the  foxgloves,  seemed  to  shut  them 
into  a  little  teeming  world  of  buzz  and  pollen-dust  and 
sun-trickled  green.  Seagrim  stood  still,  and  his  arm  slid 
from  the  crook  of  Ivy's  across  her  back,  drawing  her 
close.  But  with  a  sudden  twisting  movement  she  set  her- 
self free,  standing  before  him  in  the  path,  with  the  tall 
foxgloves  round  her,  flushed  and  freckled  like  her  face, 


174  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

and  behind  her  the  pale  cloud  of  the  bennet  heads  like 
melting  smoke. 

"  Kip  clear  of  me,  Willie  Seagrim — I'll  have  no  truck 
wud  you.  I've  met  your  wife." 

The  man,  slow  of  speech,  gaped  at  her  without  a 
word. 

"  Yes.  She  caum  round  to  our  plaace  three  days 
agone,  and  shamed  me  before  my  mother.  But  I  said 
I  knew  as  you  wur  married,  and  to-day  I  walked  out 
wud  you  to  show  the  foalkses  here  I  aun't  bin  fooled. 
Now  I've  shown  'em,  you  can  go.  I'm  shut  of  you." 

"  Ivy — yo're  telling  me  that  my  Bess " 

"  Yes — your   Bess,   wud   gloves   and   buttoned   boot? 

and "     She  checked  herself.     "  Yes,  she  caum,  and 

tried  to  put  me  to  shaum.  But  I  druv  her  off,  surelye- 
and  now  I'm  shut  of  you,  fur  a  hemmed  chap  wot  fooled 
me  wud  a  lie." 

"  But  A  no  harmed  yo' " 

"  Harmed  me !  " — she  gasped. 

"  Dom  that  Bess  for  a  meddlesome  f ule.  Oh,  she's 
gey  canny,  that  Bess.  But  Ivy,  li'l  Ivy,  yo'll  no  cast 
me  off  for  that  ?  " 

"Why  shud  I  kip  you? — you've  bin  a-fooling  me. 
You  maade  as  you  wur  a  free  man,  and  all  the  while 
you  wur  married.  I — I  loved  you." 

"  And  yo'  kin  lo'  me  still  ..."  He  sought  to  take 
her,  but  she  pushed  him  off. 

"  Reckon  I  can't.  Reckon  as  I'll  never  disremember 
all  the  lies  you've  said.  And  you  spuk  of  loving  me  ... 
knowing  all  the  whiles  .  .  .  Oh,  you  sought  to  undo  me ! 
Reckon  I'm  jest  a  gurt  trusting  owl,  but  it  wur  middling 
cruel  of  you  to  trick  me  so." 

"  Ivy — by  God  A  sweer " 

"  Be  hemmed  to  your  silly  swears.  I'll  never  believe 
you  more." 


IVY  175 

"  But  yo'll  no  cast  me  off  fur  a  wumman  up 
North  ..." 

"  I  don't  care  where  she  be.  She's  yourn — and  you 
hid  her  from  me.  If  you'd  toald  me  straight,  maybe  I 
—but  ..." 

"  Yo'  na  speered  of  me.    Why  should  A  have  spoken?  " 
"  You  did  spik — you  spuk  as  a  free  man." 
"  A  was  a  fule — yo'  made  me  mad  for  you." 
His  eye  was  darkening,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
had  an  angry  twist. 

"  You  toald  me  as  extra  duty  kept  you  away  last 
week,"  continued  Ivy,  "  and  it  wurn't — it  wur  your  wife. 
Reckon  you  love  her  and  I'm  only  a  girl  fur  your  spare 
days.  You'd  kip  me  on  fur  that." 

"  A'll  keep  yo'  on  for  naething.  If  yo'  don't  like  me, 
yo'  can  go." 

"  It's  you  who  can  go.  I'm  shut  of  you  from  this  day 
forrard.  You  git  back  to  Hailsham  this  wunst  and  never 
come  here  shaming  me  more." 

"  Yo'll  be  shamed  if  I  go.    Better  for  yo'  if  I  stay." 
"If  you  stay  you'll  shaum  me  furder,  fur  you'll  shaum 
me  wud  my  own  heart.     Git  you  gone,  Willie  Seagrim, 
and  find  a  bigger  fool  than  me." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  her  heart  sickened  with 
jealousy,  knowing  that  her  loss  to  him  could  not  be  so 
serious  as  his  to  her,  since  he  had  his  beautiful  pale  Bess, 
with  her  red  hair  and  stooping  back,  whom  all  the  time 
he  had  loved  more  than  he  loved  Ivy,  because  she  was 
his  children's  mother  and  had  rights  which  he  respected. 
He  would  soon  forget  Ivy;  perhaps  he  would  find  an- 
other girl  to  solace  his  spare  hours,  but  anyhow  he  would 
forget  her.  The  thought  almost  made  her  hold  him  back, 
cling  to  him,  and  seek  to  wrest  him  from  the  other 
woman  with  her  self-confident  possession.  But  she  was 
withheld  by  her  sense  of  outrage,  and  by  a  queer  pride 


176  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

she  had  always  had  in  herself,  a  rustic  straightness  which 
had  gone  with  her  through  all  her  many  amours.  To 
surrender  now  could  only  mean  disgrace,  since  she  felt 
that  in  some  odd  way  it  meant  surrender  to  Bess  as  well 
as  to  Bess's  master.  If  she  became  Seagrim's  woman, 
which  she  must  be  now,  or  nothing,  Bess  would  somehow 
triumph,  and  triumph  more  utterly  than  if  she  threw  him 
off  with  scorn.  Besides,  he  had  fooled  her  and  lied  to 
her;  he  was  not  worth  having — let  him  go,  though  her 
heart  bled,  and  her  bowels  ached,  as  she  watched  him 
march  off  away  from  her,  shaking  his  shoulders  in 
jaunty  swagger,  the  sunlight  gleaming  on  his  grizzled 
hair,  the  curls  she  had  loved  to  pull.  She  could  have 
called  him  back,  and  he  would  have  come,  but  her  lips 
were  shut  and  her  throat  was  dry.  He  vanished  round  a 
bend  of  the  path,  and  all  that  was  left  of  him  was  a 
crunching  footstep,  heavy  on  last  year's  leaves.  Then 
that  too  was  gone,  and  with  a  little  moan  Ivy  slid  down 
among  the  foxgloves  and  bennets,  and  sobbed  with  her 
forehead  against  the  earth. 


After  a  little  while  she  pulled  herself  up  and  wiped 
her  eyes.  Her  head  ached  and  Twelve  Pound  Wood  was 
blurry  with  her  tears.  The  sun  struck  down  upon  her 
back,  baking,  aching,  mocking  her  with  the  thick  yellow 
light  in  which  the  flies  danced  and  the  pollen  hung.  She 
wanted  to  creep  into  the  shade. 

But  she  must  go  home  and  save  her  face.  It  was 
dinner-time,  and  she  must  join  her  family  with  her  old 
bravery,  or  they  would  suspect  her  humiliation.  She  rose 
to  her  feet,  smoothed  her  dress,  dusted  off  the  bennet 
flowers  and  goose-foot  burrs  and  the  rub  of  pollen  from 
the  foxgloves,  pushed  back  the  straggling  hair  under  her 


IVY  177 

hat,  wiped  her  eyes  again,  and  hoped  the  stains  and 
blotches  of  her  weeping  would  fade  before  she  came  to 
Worge.  Then  she  set  out  for  the  opening  of  the  wood. 
A  man's  shadow  lay  across  it,  though  she  could  not  see 
him  as  he  stood  behind  an  ash-stump.  Her  breathing  be- 
came shallow,  and  her  heart  thudded.  .  .  .  He  had  come 
back,  to  find  her  in  her  weakness — he  was  waiting  for 
her.  .  .  .  No,  it  was  not  he,  this  smaller  man,  crouched 
like  a  fox  against  the  stump. 

"Jerry,"  she  cried,  as  she  turned  the  elbow  of  the  path, 
and  met  him  face  to  face. 

He  was  drunk ;  his  eyes  showed  it  with  their  gleam  of 
bleared  stars,  his  flushed  cheeks  and  dark  swelled  veins, 
his  hair  hanging  in  a  fringe  over  his  brow,  his  mouth  both 
fierce  and  loose.  .  .  .  He  lurched  towards  her,  and  she 
just  managed  to  brush  past  him,  tumbling  ungracefully 
over  the  hurdle  that  shut  off  the  wood.  He  must  have 
just  come,  for  he  had  missed  Seagrim — he  might  have 
stumbled  over  her  as  she  lay  and  cried  among  the 
grasses. 

She  did  not  fall  as  she  jumped  the  hurdle,  but  her 
ankle  turned,  making  her  stagger,  and  by  the  time  she 
could  right  herself,  Jerry  stood  before  her,  blocking  the 
way  to  the  Street.  Then  she  saw  for  the  first  time  that 
he  had  a  hammer  in  his  hand.  Ivy  gave  a  loud  scream, 
and  darted  sideways,  scrambling  through  the  hedge  into 
Twelve  Pound  field.  Jerry  was  after  her,  without  a 
word,  no  longer  the  furtive,  padding  animal  she  had 
despised,  but  the  armed  and  terrible  beast  of  prey  that 
would  kill  and  devour  the  foolhardy  huntress  who  had 
roused  him.  She  staggered  up  the  field,  too  breathless  to 
cry,  but  he  drew  even  with  her  in  a  few  strides,  and 
grabbed  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Stop,  Ivy,  and  say  your  prayers.  I'm  going  to  kill 
you." 


178  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

She  could  not  speak,  for  her  throat  was  dried  up. 
Jerry's  eyes  were  more  of  a  threat  than  his  word.  They 
were  on  fire — his  skin  was  on  fire — liquor  and  madness 
had  set  him  alight;  and  in  his  hand  was  a  hammer  to 
hammer  out  her  brains.  She  could  neither  cry  to  his 
mercy  nor  appeal  to  his  reason — her  physical  powers 
were  failing  her,  and  both  mercy  and  reason  in  him  had 
been  burnt  up. 

He  gave  her  a  violent  push,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees. 

"  That's  right.  Say  your  prayers.  I'm  a  clergyman's 
son,  and  you  shan't  die  without  asking  pardon  for  your 
sins.  I  saw  you  go  into  the  wood  with  him,  as  you 
wouldn't  with  me  .  .  .  I'll  kill  you  quick,  you  shan't 
have  any  pain  ...  I  loved  you  once,  I  reckon." 

He  swung  up  the  hammer,  but  he  was  too  drunk  to 
take  aim,  and  the  action  woke  her  out  of  the  trance  of 
fear  into  which  he  had  plunged  her.  She  felt  something 
graze  bruisingly  down  her  hip — then  she  was  scram- 
bling on  her  feet  again,  rushing  for  the  hedge. 

The  hedge  of  Twelve  Pound  field  is  a  thick  hedge  of 
wattles  and  thorn.  Ivy,  too  mad  to  look  for  a  gap,  tried 
to  force  her  way  through  it.  Her  head  and  arms  stuck, 
and  she  heard  Jerry  running.  Then  at  last  loud  screams 
broke  from  her — scream  after  scream,  as  he  seized  her 
by  the  feet  and  pulled  her  backwards  through  the 
brambles,  leaving  shreds  of  blue  gown  and  yellow  hair 
on  every  twig.  He  pulled  her  out,  and  flung  her  rolling 
on  the  grass ;  then  the  hammer  swung  again.  .  .  . 

But  the  field  was  full  of  shoutings  and  voices,  of  feet 
trampling  round  her  head.  Then  two  hands  came  under 
her  armpits,  dragging  her  up,  and  she  saw  her  father. 
She  saw  her  brother  Harry,  looking  very  green  and 
scared,  and  last  of  all  Jerry  plunging  in  the  lock  of  two 
huge  arms,  which  gripped  him  powerless  and  belonged 
to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sumption. 


IVY  179 

"  Take  her  away,"  said  the  minister.  "  I'll  keep  hold 
of  the  boy." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  hurt  her,"  moaned  Jerry.  "  I'm  a 
clergyman's  son — I'd  have  killed  her  without  any  pain." 

"  Come  hoame,  Ivy,"  said  Mus'  Beatup,  and  began  to 
lead  her  away. 

"  Is  it  dinner-time  ?  "  asked  Ivy  stupidly. 

Harry  gave  a  nervous  guffaw. 

"  I'll  be  round  and  see  you,  neighbour,"  said  Sump- 
tion, "  soon  as  I've  got  this  poor  boy  safe." 

"  '  Pore  boy  '  indeed !  "  grunted  Mus'  Beatup.  "  '  Pore 
boy  '  as  ud  have  bin  murdering  my  daughter  if  Harry  and 
I  hadn't  had  the  sperrit  to  break  your  valiant  Sabbath  in 
the  Street  field.  Look  at  his  gurt  big  murdery  hammer." 

"  He  would  not  have  used  it — for  the  Angel  of  the 
Lord  led  me  to  him,  and  it  was  the  Angel  of  the  Lord 
who  saved  both  him  and  the  girl,  despite  your  Sabbath- 
breaking." 

"  Then  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  can  saave  him  another 
wunst — when  I  have  him  brung  up  for  murdering. 
Come  along,  do,  Harry." 

Jerry  was  silent  now,  nor  was  he  struggling.  He 
looked  suddenly  very  ill,  and  as  Ivy  stumbled  blindly 
down  the  field  on  her  father's  arm,  she  had  a  memory 
of  his  drawn  white  face  lolling  sideways  on  the  minister's 
shoulder. 


Two-edged  disgrace  struck  at  Ivy  both  at  home  and 
in  the  village — for  the  double  reason  of  Jerry's  assault 
and  Seagrim's  parade.  The  latter  was  almost  the  wicked- 
est in  the  Beatups'  eyes,  for  it  had  the  most  witnesses — 
the  former  had  no  witnesses  but  themselves  and  Mr. 
Sumption,  though  when  Mus'  Beatup  led  Ivy  home,  Mus' 
Putland  was  already  climbing  the  stile  and  Mus'  Bourner 


180  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

running  out  of  his  door.  It  could  be  hushed  up,  muffled 
and  smoothed,  whereas  the  whole  Street  had  seen  Ivy  in 
her  flaunt  of  wedded  Seagrim — "  A  bad  'un,"  "  a  hussy  " 
she  would  be  called  from  Harebeating  to  Puddledock. 

"  Tis  sent  for  a  judgment  on  you,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup. 
"If  you  hadn't  gone  traipsing  and  strutting  wud  that 
soldier,  I  reckon  as  gipsy  Jerry  had  never  gone  after  you 
wud  his  hammer." 

"  I  wurn't  a-going  to  show  'em  as  I  minded  their 
clack,"  sobbed  Ivy  against  the  kitchen  table — "  I  said 
as  '  I'll  taake  him  out  this  wunst,  jmt  to  show  'em  I 
aun't  bin  fooled,  and  then  I'll  git  shut  of  un.'  And  I 
dud,  surelye." 

"  And  a  valiant  fool  you're  looking  now,  my  girl — 
run  after  and  murdered,  or  would  have  bin,  if  your 
father  hadn't  a-gone  weeding  the  oats  and  heard  your 
screeching.  Reckon  as  half  the  Street  heard  it  at  their 
dinners.  We'll  have  the  law  of  Minister  and  his  gipsy." 

So  they  would  have  done,  had  it  not  been  brought 
home  to  them  that  "  the  law "  would  hoist  them  into 
that  publicity  they  wanted  to  avoid.  If  Jerry  were  tried 
for  attempted  murder,  all  the  disgraceful  story  of  Ivy 
and  Seagrim  would  be  spread  abroad,  not  only  throughout 
Sunday  Street  and  Brownbread  Street  and  the  other  ham- 
lets of  Dallington,  but  away  north  and  south  and  east 
and  west,  to  Eastbourne,  Hastings,  Seaford,  Brighton, 
Grinstead,  and  everywhere  the  Sussex  News  was  read. 

So  the  Beatups  agreed  to  forego  their  revenge  on  con- 
dition that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sumption  took  Jerry  away  for 
the  few  days  remaining  of  his  leave,  and  did  not  have 
him  back  at  the  Horselunges  on  any  future  occasion. 

"  You  can't  hurt  my  boy  without  hurting  your  girl," 
he  told  them,  "  so  best  let  it  alone  and  keep  'em  apart. 
I'm  sorry  for  what's  happened,  and  maybe  Jerry  is,  and 
maybe  he's  not.  I  reckon  Satan's  got  him." 


IVY  181 

"  Reckon  he  has,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup  spitefully,  "  and 
reckon  when  Satan  gits  childern  it's  cos  faathers  and 
mothers  have  opened  the  door.  'Tis  a  valiant  thing  fur  a 
Christian  minister  not  to  know  how  to  breed  up  his  own 
young  boy.  But  the  shoemaker's  wife  goes  the  worst 
shod,  as  they  say,  and  reckon  hell's  all  spannelled  up  wud 
parsons'  children." 

"  Reckon  you  don't  know  how  to  speak  to  a  clergy- 
man " — and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sumption  turned  haughtily 
from  the  wife  to  the  husband,  who  was,  however,  big 
with  an  attack  on  Sunday  observance,  and  no  discussion 
could  go  forward  till  he  had  been  delivered  of  it. 

In  the  end  the  matter  was  settled,  and  the  parting  was 
fairly  friendly.  The  Beatups  had  a  queer  affection  for 
their  pastor  mingled  with  their  disrespect,  and  admired 
his  muscle  if  they  despised  his  ministrations.  The  pro- 
ceedings ended  in  an  adjournment  to  the  stables,  where 
Mr.  Sumption  gave  sound  and  professional  advice  on  a 
sick  mare. 

8 

"Poor  Ivy  felt  as  if  she  could  never  hold  up  her  head 
again.  The  very  efforts  she  had  made  to  avoid  con- 
tempt had  resulted  in  bringing  it  down  on  her  in  double 
measure.  Garbled  stories  of  her  misadventure  ran  about 
the  Street.  It  was  said  that  she  had  been  walking  out 
with  two  men  at  once,  that  Seagrim  had  jilted  her  be- 
cause of  Jerry  and  Jerry  tried  to  do  her  in  because  of 
Seagrim.  There  were  other  stories,  too,  some  more 
creditable,  and  some  less — and  they  all  found  their  way 
to  Worge,  where  they  provoked  the  anger  of  her  father, 
the  querulousness  of  her  mother,  the  shrinking  contempt 
of  Nell,  and  the  loutish  sniggers  of  Harry  and  Zacky. 

Ivy  was  not  a  sensitive  soul,  but  the  Beatup  attitude 
was  warranted  to  pierce  the  thickest  skin.  The  family 


182  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

could  not  let  the  matter  drop,  and  kept  it  up  even  after 
those  outside  had  let  it  fall  in  to  amiable  "  disremember- 
ing."  Ivy's  exuberant  correspondence  with  the  forces, 
her  amorous  past,  her  scandalous  future,  all  became  sub- 
jects of  condemnation.  Her  people  did  not  mean  to  be 
unkind,  but  they  nagged  and  scolded.  Perhaps  the  balk- 
ing of  their  revenge  on  Jerry  Sumption  made  them  spe- 
cially unmerciful  towards  Ivy — she  had  to  face  the  tor- 
rent of  the  diverted  stream.  She  had  disgraced  them  as, 
apparently,  none  of  Mus'  Beatup's  muddled  carouses  or 
gin-logged  collapses  had  done.  The  fine,  if  beer-blown 
flower  of  the  Beatups  had  been  hopelessly  picked  to 
pieces  by  her  wantonness  and  indiscretion.  Nell  was  per- 
haps the  most  really  vindictive  of  the  lot  (for  Mus' 
Beatup  was  easy-going  and  Mrs.  Beatup  loved  her  daugh- 
ter through  all  her  reproaches),  because  she  saw  in  Ivy's 
disgrace  another  danger  to  her  hopes.  She  had  enough 
odds  against  her  in  her  poor  little  reedy  romance  without 
all  the  spilth  of  Ivy's  bursting  thick  amours  to  come 
tumbling  over  it,  choking  out  its  life.  Ivy's  village 
friends  turned  against  her  too,  for  Polly  Sinden  was  still 
trying  to  live  up  to  Bill  Putland,  and  Jen  Hollowbone  of 
the  Foul  Mile  remembered  the  theft  of  Kadwell  and 
taunted  "  Sarve  her  right."  Thyrza,  her  sister-in-law, 
was  still  friendly,  but  though  Ivy  liked  Thyrza.  there  had 
never  been  any  real  confidence  or  comradeship  between 
them — the  elder  girl  was  too  quiet,  too  settled,  and  had 
always  been  lacking  in  that  indefinite  quality  which  makes 
a  woman  popular  with  her  own  sex.  Ivy  did  not  respond 
to  Thyrza's  few  tentative  efforts,  made,  she  suspected,  out 
of  pity,  and  a  sense  of  duty  to  Tom.  Besides,  her  trouble 
had  soured  for  the  time  even  her  own  sweet  honest  heart, 
and  the  sight  of  Thyrza  secure  of  a  man's  love  and  an 
even  more  wonderful  hope,  smote  her  with  an  unbear- 
able sense  of  her  own  failure  and  loneliness. 


IVY  183 

For  the  worst  of  all  that  Ivy  had  to  bear  was  her  love 
for  Seagrim,  still  alive,  though  wounded  and  outraged. 
Her  old  gay  interest  in  young  men,  her  comradeships 
and  correspondences,  had  faded  out  and  could  occupy 
her  no  more.  Her  heart  was  full  of  a  mixed  dread  and 
hope  of  meeting  him  again.  Sometimes  when  the  purple 
chaffy  evenings  drew  down  over  the  fields,  and  the  smell 
of  ripening  grain  and  ripening  hops  made  sweet  sick  per- 
fume on  the  drowsy  air,  an  ache  which  was  almost  mad- 
ness would  drive  her  out  into  the  lanes,  seeking  him  by 
the  tall  stile  at  Four  Wents,  where  he  would  never  come 
again.  The  fiery  horn  of  the  moon,  the  jigging  candles 
of  the  stars,  would  glow  out  of  the  grape-coloured  sky  as 
she  went  home  through  a  fog  of  tears,  slipping  and 
stumbling  in  the  ruts,  dreaming  of  his  step  beside  her  and 
his  arm  about  her  and  his  bulk  all  black  in  the  dimness 
of  the  lane.  .  .  .  Then  suddenly  she  would  hate  him  for 
all  he  had  made  her  suffer,  for  all  the  lies  he  had  told 
her  and  all  the  truths,  for  the  kisses  he  had  given  her  and 
the  tears  that  he  had  cost  her — and  the  hate  would  hurt 
more  than  love,  choke  her  and  burn  her,  make  her  throw 
herself  sobbing  and  gasping  into  bed,  where  the  hunch 
of  Nell's  cold  shoulder  and  the  polar  stars  that  hung  in 
the  window  joined  in  preaching  the  same  lesson  of  lone- 
liness. 

Then  one  day  she  made  up  her  mind  quite  suddenly 
to  bear  it  no  longer.  "If  you  have  much  more  of  this 
you'll  go  crazy,"  she  said  to  herself,  " — so  git  shut  of 
it,  Ivy  Beatup." 


Ivy's  disappearance  was  not  found  out  till  late  in 
the  evening.  In  spite  of  the  dejection  and  heartache 
of  the  last  week,  her  failure  to  appear  at  supper  with  a 
healthy  appetite  was  an  alarming  sign.  It  was  now 


184  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

remembered  that  no  one  seemed  to  have  seen  her  all 
the  evening.  Mrs.  Beatup  burst  into  tears. 

"  She's  chucked  herself  into  the  pond,  for  sartain- 
sure.  You've  bin  so  rough  wud  her,  Maaster — you've 
bruk  her  heart,  surelye." 

"  I  rough  wud  a  girl  as  has  disgraced  us  all !  I've 
took  no  notice  of  her  a  dunnamany  days." 

"  That's  why,  I  reckon.  You've  bruk  her  heart.  Git 
along,  Harry,  and  drag  the  pond,  and  doan't  sit  staring 
at  me  lik  a  fowl  wud  gapes." 

"  Maybe  she's  only  gone  into  Senlac  to  see  the  pic- 
tures." 

"  And  maybe  she's  only  run  away  wud  that  lousy 
furrin  soldier  of  hern." 

"  I  tell  you  she's  drownded.  I  feel  it  in  my  boans. 
She's  floating  on  the  water  lik  a  dead  cat.  Go  out  and 
see,  Harry !  Go  out  and  see !  " 

Zacky  began  to  howl. 

"  Adone,  do,  mother !  "  cried  Harry.  "  You're  the  one 
fur  the  miserables.  Reckon  Ivy's  only  out  enjoying 
herself." 

"  I'd  go  myself,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Beatup,  "  but  my  oald 
legs  feel  that  swummy.  Oh,  I  can  see  her  floating,  all 
swelled  up !  " 

During  this  scene  Nell  had  slipped  out  of  the  room. 
She  was  now  back  in  the  doorway,  saying  icily — 

"  You  needn't  worry.  Ivy's  taken  all  her  clothes  with 
her." 

The  family  took  a  little  time  to  get  the  drift  of  her 
words. 

"  All  her  clothes !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Beatup  faintly. 

"  Yes — in  the  pilgrim-basket,  so  you  may  be  sure  she 
hasn't  drowned  herself." 

"She's  gone  away  wud  that  dirty  soldier!"  cried 
Mus'  Beatup.  "  That  justabout  proves  it." 


IVY  185 

"  It  doan't,"  said  his  wife.    "  Ivy's  an  honest  girl." 

"  An  honest  girl  as  walks  out  wud  a  married  man  fur 
all  the  Street  to  see,  and  then  goes  and  gits  half  murdered 
by  a  gipsy !  " 

"  A  clergyman's  son,"  corrected  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  And 
it  wurn't  her  fault,  nuther.  Our  Ivy  may  be  a  bit  flighty, 
but  she's  pure  as  the  morning's  milk." 

"  Whur's  she  gone,  then  ?  She'd  nowheres  to  go.  You 
doan't  know  the  warld  as  I  do,  and  I  tell  you  she's  gone 
wud  un,  and  be  hemmed  to  her.  We're  all  disgraced  and 
ull  never  hoald  up  our  heads  agaun." 

"  I  woan't  believe  it." 

"  You're  an  obstinate  oald  wife — I  tell  you  it'll  be 
proved  to-morrer." 

"How?" 

"  I'll  go  to  the  camp  myself  and  find  out.  If  Sea- 
grim's  gone  too,  then  it's  proved." 

The  family  went  to  bed  convinced,  except  for  Mrs. 
Beatup — who  kept  up  a  mulish  belief  in  her  daughter's 
honesty — that  Ivy  had  run  away  with  Seagrim. 

The  next  morning  Mus'  Beatup  set  out  for  Hailsham 
to  make  enquiries.  But  he  had  not  been  fitted  by  nature 
for  a  diplomatic  visit  to  a  military  camp — all  he  did  was 
to  fall  foul  of  various  sentries  and  nearly  get  arrested. 
In  the  end  he  found  himself  back  in  the  road,  with  noth- 
ing gained  except  perhaps  the  fact  that  he  was  not  in 
the  guard-room.  He  felt  as  if  the  whole  British  Army 
were  in  league  against  him,  the  accomplice  of  one  Cor- 
poral in  his  crimes,  and  was  scanning  the  scenery  for  a 
public-house  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  marching  feet, 
and  a  file  came  tramping  up  the  road,  commanded  by 
Seagrim  himself. 

Mus'  Beatup  straddled  across  his  way. 

"Who  are  you?  Stand  clear!"  cried  the  Corporal, 
while  the  file  marched  stiffly  onwards. 


186  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"Whur's  my  daughter?" 

"  Stand  clear — or  A'll  have  you  put  under  arrest." 

"  I  want  my  daughter — Ivy  Beatup." 

"  Halt !  "  cried  Seagrim  to  the  file,  which  had  now 
marched  a  discreet  distance  ahead.  "  A  don't  knaw  owt 
of  your  daughter.  A've  not  clapped  eyes  on  her  sine 
Sunday  week." 

"  She's  run  away." 

"  A  don't  knaw  owt." 

"  You  don't  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  A  don't  knaw  owt.  Quick  march !  "  and  off  went 
he  and  his  file  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  leaving  Mus'  Beatup 
furious  and  confounded. 

"  He's  a  militaryist,"  he  mumbled,  "  a  hemmed  mili- 
taryist — treating  me  as  if  I  wur  pigs'  dirt.  That's  wot 
we're  coming  to,  I  reckon,  wot  Govunmunt's  brung  us  to 
— militaryists  and  the  pigs'  dirt  they  spannell  on.  Ho ! 
there'll  be  a  revolution  soon  " — and  he  floundered  up  the 
road  towards  Hailsham  where  the  sign  of  the  Red  Lion 
hung  across  the  way. 

10 

Jerry  Sumption  knew  nothing  of  Ivy's  disappearance, 
for  the  morning  after  that  fatal  Sunday  his  father  had 
taken  him  off  to  Brighton,  and  from  Brighton  he  had 
gone  back  to  France.  In  fact  his  whole  notion  of  the 
affair  was  hazy — inflamed  by  one  or  two  unaccustomed 
glasses  of  bad  whisky  and  the  memory  of  Ivy  on  Sea- 
grim's  arm,  he  had  rushed  and  stumbled  through  what 
seemed  to  him  now  a  wild  nightmare  of  phantasmagoria 
from  which  he  had  waked  into  aching  and  disgrace. 

He  was  sullen  company  during  those  few  days  at 
Brighton.  Mr.  Sumption  had  chosen  Brighton  because 
it  was  at  a  safe,  and  also  not  too  expensive,  distance 
from  Sunday  Street.  Moreover,  he  hoped  it  would  pro- 


IVY  187 

vide  some  distraction  for  Jerry.  The  financial  problem 
had  been  great,  but  he  had  solved  it  by  drawing  out  the 
whole  of  his  savings.  He  took  a  poor  little  lodging  at 
the  back  of  the  town,  from  which  he  and  Jerry  travelled 
down  daily  by  'bus  and  tram  to  the  diversions  of  the 
sea- front. 

It  was  not  a  quite  successful  holiday,  which  was  in- 
deed hardly  to  be  expected.  Mr.  Sumption  brought 
preachment  to  bear  on  Jerry's  sullenness — he  did  not 
understand  what  a  hazy  impression  the  catastrophe  had 
made,  and  that  to  him,  though  not  to  Ivy,  the  scene  by 
Twelve  Pound  spinney  mattered  less  than  that  earlier 
scene  in  Forges  Field.  Also  Mr.  Sumption's  ideas  of 
amusement  were  not  the  same  as  his  son's.  He  decided 
to  risk  the  Lord's  displeasure  and  visit  a  Picture  Palace 
for  Jerry's  sake,  but  was  so  scandalised  by  what  he  saw 
that  he  insisted  on  leaving  after  half  an  hour's  distress. 

"  Surely  it  is  the  house  of  Satan  with  those  red  lights," 
he  exclaimed  with  sundry  cracks  and  tosses. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  red  lights  ?  You  get  'em  in 
a  forge." 

"  But  a  forge  is  the  place  of  honest  toil — and  a  kine- 
ma's  but  a  place  of  gaping  and  idleness  and  worse :  three 
hundred  folks  got  together  to  see  lovers  kissing,  which 
is  a  private  matter." 

Jerry  laughed  bitterly. 

"  Three  hundred  folk  gaping  at  an  ungodly  picture, 
who  might  be  saving  their  souls.  I  tell  you,  boy,  there 
ull  come  a  red  day,  that  ull  burn  redder  than  any  forge 
or  picture-house,  and  all  the  ungodly  gazers  shall  be 
pitched  into  it  like  weeds  into  the  oven,  and  only  the 
saints  escape — with  the  singeing  of  their  garments." 

"  Oh,  Father,  do  speak  cheerful.  I'm  that  down- 
hearted." 

"  Reckon  you  are,  my  poor  lad — and  the  Lord  rebuke 


188  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

me  if  I  add  to  your  burden.  This  looks  a  godly  sort 
of  a  pastry-cook's.  Let's  go  in  and  get  some  tea." 

The  next  day  was  the  last  of  Jerry's  leave,  and  the 
one  that  he  and  his  father  spent  most  happily  together. 
Mr.  Sumption's  ideas  of  entertainment  seemed  quite  hope- 
less to  Jerry,  but  during  those  last  hours  he  felt  drawn 
closer  to  the  being  who  he  knew  was  the  only  friend  he 
had.  They  spent  the  morning  on  the  pier,  listening  to 
the  band,  and  in  the  afternoon  went  by  the  motor-bus  to 
Rottingdean — a  trip  so  surprisingly  expensive  that  there 
was  no  money  left  to  pay  for  their  tea,  and  while  the 
other  excursionists  sat  down  to  long  tables,  they  had  to 
wander  upon  the  down,  whence  they  watched  the  feasters, 
Jerry  like  a  forlorn  sparrow  and  Mr.  Sumption  like  a 
hungry  crow,  till  it  was  time  to  go  home. 

But  all  the  while  the  minister  could  see  his  son  grow- 
ing more  dependent  on  him,  and  in  his  heart  he  thanked 
the  Lord.  His  delight  at  having  won  that  much  poor 
show  of  affection  blinded  him  a  little  to  the  pathos  of 
the  outlaw  clinging  to  his  only  prop,  before  he  was  flung 
to  troubles  and  dangers  which  he  realised  in  helpless  fore- 
boding. The  chapel  weed  clung  to  the  chapel  stone  be- 
fore it  was  rudely  torn  up  and  thrown  out  to  the  burning. 

Their  final  parting  was  abusive,  owing  to  Mr.  Sump- 
tion's having  left  Jerry's  dinner  of  sandwiches  behind  at 
their  rooms,  but  the  father  would  always  have  a  thankful 
memory  of  that  evening  when  Jerry  had  been  simple  and 
grateful  and  rather  childish,  and  had  listened  to  his  good 
advice,  and  had  not  interrupted  with  his  cry  for  cheer- 
fulness the  stream  of  Calvinistic  warning. 

They  had  sat  by  the  big  ugly  window  of  their  room, 
looking  out  at  the  first  dim  stars  pricking  the  sky  above 
Kemp  Town.  Jerry's  eyes  were  full  of  a  mysterious 
trouble  as  they  pondered  the  new  serenity  of  his  father's 
face. 


IVY  189 

"  Father,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  you'll  watch  and  pray 
that  Satan  don't  get  me." 

"  Satan  can't  hurt  the  elect." 

"  But  maybe  I'm  not  one  of  the  elect.  Didn't  seem  like 
it  on  Sunday,  did  it  ?  " 

"  That  was  the  Lord's  trial  sent  to  us  both — He  de- 
livered you  unto  Satan  for  a  while  that  you  might  find 
His  ways." 

"  Reckon  His  ways  are  not  for  my  finding." 

"  I  will  pray  for  you,  my  dear." 

"  Father,  you  promise,  you  swear,  as  you'll  never  let 
me  go?  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  there  was  only  you 
standing  betwixt  me  and  hell.  Reckon  you're  the  only 
soul  in  all  the  world  that  cares  about  me." 


ii 

By  the  time  Mus'  Beatup  had  groped  his  stumbling 
way  from  Hailsham  to  Sunday  Street,  the  anxieties  of 
Worge  about  Ivy  were  at  an  end.  A  letter  had  come 
during  the  morning  and  was  flapped  in  his  face.  He 
was  not  sober  enough  to  read  it,  nor  yet  too  drunk  to 
have  it  read  to  him. 

"  8  Bozzum  Square, 
"  Hastings. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  hope  this  finds  you  well  as  it  leaves 
me  at  present.  I  got  fed  up  as  the  boys  say  and  came 
here.  Do  you  remember  Ellen  Apps  and  her  folk  lived 
at  the  Fowl  Mile  up  the  Hollowbones.  She  is  here  work- 
ing on  the  trams,  I  heard  from  Jen,  so  thought  I  go  and 
ask  her.  She  says  I  will  get  a  job  in  a  day  or  2  with  my 
strong  physic,  so  do  not  worry  about  me,  I  am  with  Ellen 
and  hope  start  work  next  week.  Having  no  more  to 
say,  I  will  now  draw  to  a  close.  Fondest  love  from 

"  Your  loving  daughter,  IVY." 


190  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  I  toald  you  as  she'd  never  gone  wud  Seagrim !  "  cried 
Mrs.  Beatup. 

"  Umph,"  grunted  her  husband — "  but  she's  gone  on 
the  trams,  which  is  next  bad  to  it.  Now  if  she'd  gone 
maaking  munititions.  ..." 

"  Trams  is  better  than  munititions." 

"  No  it  aun't.  Fine  ladies  and  duchesses  maake  muni- 
titions, but  I  never  saw  a  duchess  driving  a  tram." 

"  Ivy  ull  never  drive  a  tram — she'd  be  killed,  surelye." 

"  Best  thing  she  cud  do  for  herself  now  she's  disgraced 
us  all — a  darter  of  mine  on  the  trams,  a  good  yeoman's 
darter  on  the  trams  .  .  .  'tis  shameful." 

"  But  'tis  honest,  Maaster — better  nor  if  she'd  run 
away  wud  a  man." 

"  Maybe — but  'tis  shameful  honest.  I'm  shut  of 
her!"  - 

"Oh,  Ned!— our  girl!" 

"  Your  girl !  " 

"  You  cruel,  unnatural  f  aather !  " 

"  Adone  do,  and  taake  off  my  boots." 

The  matter  ended  temporarily  in  sniffs  and  grunts, 
but  when  Mus'  Beatup  woke  out  of  the  sleep  which 
followed  the  removal  of  his  boots,  he  reviewed  it  more 
auspiciously.  After  all,  working  on  the  trams  was  better 
than  working  in  the  fields — suppose  Ivy  had  gone  and 
offered  her  robust  services  to  some  neighbouring  farmer, 
to  some  twopenny  smallholder  perhaps,  then  the  yeoman 
name  of  Beatup  would  have  indeed  been  trampled  into  the 
earth.  Now  trams  were  town  work,  trams  were  war 
work,  trams  were  engineering.  In  time  "  my  darter  on 
the  trams  "  began  to  sound  nearly  as  well  as  "  my  son  at 
the  front." 

So  a  letter  was  written  in  which  Ivy's  choice  was 
deplored,  though  not  condemned.  She  was  invited  to 
come  home,  or  if  obstinate  on  that  point,  to  turn  her 


IVY  191 

attention  to  the  more  aristocratic  "  munititions,"  but 
if  it  must  be  trams,  then  trams  it  should  be  unre- 
proached. 

Ivy  wrote  back  in  a  few  days,  saying  that  she  had 
"joined  up  "  and  enclosing  a  photograph  of  herself  in 
uniform.  She  would  soon  be  earning  thirty  shillings  a 
week,  and  had  taken  a  room  of  her  own  in  Bozzum 
Square.  Her  family  had  now  quite  forgiven  her,  espe- 
cially as  they  found  the  neighbourhood  inclined  to  ap- 
plaud rather  than  to  despise  Beatup's  daughter  on  the 
trams.  Her  mother  would  have  liked  her  home,  but  Ivy 
was  quite  firm  about  sticking  to  her  job.  "  I'm  best  away 
from  the  Street  as  things  are,  and  I'll  send  you  five  shill- 
ings a  week  home,  and  you  can  get  a  girl  with  that  and 
what  you  save  from  my  keep."  But  it  would  have  taken 
two  girls  to  make  a  real  substitute  for  Ivy. 

Mrs.  Beatup,  besides  the  gap  in  her  motherly  feelings, 
missed  her  terribly  about  the  house.  Her  sturdy  willing- 
ness to  scrub  or  clean,  her  cheery  indifference  to  the 
little  indelicacies  of  emptying  slops  or  gutting  chickens, 
her  unfailing  good-humour  and  bubbling  vitality,  the 
rough,  tender  comfort  she  gave  in  hours  of  sorrow,  all 
made  Ivy  of  a  special,  irreplaceable  value  in  her  mother's 
working-day.  Nell  refused  to  give  up  her  "  teachering," 
and  spoke  obstinately  of  indentures,  and  other  irrelevant 
puzzles.  Anyhow  her  squeamishness — she  even  washed 
the  dishes  with  a  wrinkled  nose — and  the  delicacy  of  her 
small  soft  hands  would  make  her  pretty  useless  in  hen- 
house or  kitchen.  Mrs.  Beatup  began  to  talk  of  Ivy  as 
much  as  she  thought  of  her,  and  soon  her  family  came 
to  find  her  more  of  a  nuisance  now  she  was  away  than 
she  had  been  at  home  in  her  most  disruptive  moments. 

However,  her  forgiveness  was  complete,  and  the  recon- 
ciliation was  celebrated  by  a  solemn  ride  in  "  Ivy's  tram  " 
by  all  the  Beatups.  It  was  during  the  summer  holidays, 


192  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

so  Nell  was  able  to  go — Mrs.  Beatup  wore  her  Dionysian 
bonnet,  and  her  husband  his  best  Sunday  blacks,  Harry 
and  Zacky  were  scrubbed  and  collared  into  oafishness,  the 
house  was  shut  up  and  left  in  charge  of  Elphick  and 
Juglery,  as  it  had  never  been  since  Tom's  wedding. 

"  Ivy's  tram  "  was  on  the  line  from  the  Albert  Me- 
morial to  Ore,  and  ground  its  way  through  dreadful 
suburbs  up  Mount  Pleasant,  past  the  decayed  "  resi- 
dences "  of  Hastings'  prime,  slabbed  with  stucco  and 
bulging  with  bow-windows,  now  all  grimed  and  peeled 
and  darkened,  chopped  into  lodgings  and  sliced  into  flats, 
not  the  ghost  of  prosperity  but  its  rotting  corpse. 

The  tram  ground  and  screamed  and  swished  on  the 
rails,  and  Ivy,  rosy-faced  under  her  tramwayman's  cap 
— with  its  peak  over  the  curl  that  hid  her  ear — came 
forcing  her  way  up  the  inside  for  fares,  taking  from  each 
Beatup  its  separate  penny.  She  looked  exuberantly  well, 
and  quite  happy  again ;  she  also  smelled  strongly  of  tram- 
oil,  and  Nell's  little  nose  wrinkled  even  more  than  when 
she  had  smelt  of  soapsuds  and  milk.  She  had  a  cheery 
word  for  each  one  of  her  family,  who  in  their  turn  sat 
abashed,  holding  their  tickets  stiffly  between  ringer  and 
thumb,  their  eyes  slewed  on  Ivy  as  she  took  other  pas- 
sengers' fares,  answered  their  questions,  trundled  them 
out,  bundled  them  in,  pulled  the  bell,  ran  up  to  the  roof, 
changed  the  sign,  and  flung  a  little  good-humoured  chaff 
at  Bill  the  motorman  when  they  reached  the  terminus. 

She  had  no  time  off  till  late  that  evening,  so  when  the 
family  had  ridden  in  state  to  Ore,  they  rode  back  again 
to  the  Memorial.  The  parting  was  a  little  spoiled  by 
the  crowd  which  was  waiting  to  board  the  tram  and  re- 
duced Mrs.  Beatup's  farewell  embrace  into  something 
grabbing  and  unseemly. 

"  Good-by,  mother  dear,  and  doan't  you  vrother.  I'm 
valiant  here.  .  .  .  Full  inside,  ma'am,  and  no  standing 


IVY  193 

allowed  on  the  platform.  .  .  .  Now,  Nell,  take  care  of 
mother  and  hold  her  arm — she's  gitting  scattery — and 
adone,  do,  mother,  for  there's  too  many  fares  on  the  top, 
and  I'm  hemmed  if  I  haven't  bitten  a  grape  out  of  your 
bonnet." 

12 

It  was  night  before  the  dislocations  of  train  and  trap 
brought  the  Beatups  back  to  Worge.  A  big  yellow  moon 
was  swinging  high,  scattering  a  honey-coloured  dust  of 
light  on  the  fields  and  copses  and  little  lanes.  The 
farms,  hushed  and  shut,  lay  dark  against  their  grain- 
fields  drooping  with  harvest — in  some  fields  the  corn  was 
already  cut  and  shocked,  each  tasselled  cone  standing  in 
the  moonlight  beside  the  black  pool  of  its  shadow. 

The  Beatups  were  silent — owing  perhaps  to  their  con- 
gestion in  the  trap.  Nell  was  tired,  and  leaned  against 
her  mother.  Life  seemed  a  very  sordid  trip,  in  spite  of 
the  honey-coloured  moon,  which  swung  so  high,  the  type 
of  unfulfilled  desire.  Mrs.  Beatup  was  thinking  of  Ivy 
and  wondering  if  the  soles  of  her  boots  were  thick  enough  ; 
and  Zacky,  wedged  between  them,  planned  a  big  hunt 
for  conkers  the  next  day.  On  the  front  seat,  Mus' 
Beatup  sucked  at  his  pipe  and  schemed  a  dash  for  the 
Rifle  Volunteer  before  closing  time.  "  If  the  War  goes 
on  much  longer,  there'll  be  no  more  beer,  so  I  mun  git 
wot's  to  be  had.  It's  those  Russians,  and  be  hemmed  to 
them;  reckon  they'll  maake  peace  and  never  care  if  the 
War  goes  on  a  dunnamany  year.  It's  the  sort  of  thing 
you'd  expect  of  chaps  wot  went  teetotal  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment." 

Harry  drove  the  old  gelding,  and  as  the  trap  lurched 
from  farm  to  farm  he  marked  those  which  had  cut  their 
grain,  and  which  had  not.  They  had  reaped  the  Penny 
field  at  Cowlease,  and  the  old  bottoms  of  Slivericks  stood 


194  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

shocked  beside  the  stream.  Egypt  Farm,  with  late  hardy 
sowings,  had  not  started — Worge  started  to-morrow. 

That  visit  to  Hastings  had  been  a  holiday  before  the 
solemn  business  of  the  year.  For  a  long  time  he  had 
planned  his  reaping — trudging  the  fields  each  day,  finger- 
ing the  awns,  rubbing  the  straw.  He  must  not  cut  too 
early  or  too  late.  Last  year  the  oats  had  stood  till  they 
shed  their  seed,  this  year  they  must  be  caught  in  just  the 
right  moment  of  wind  and  sun. 

On  the  whole  the  crops  promised  well.  The  old 
grounds  of  the  Volunteer  and  the  Street  field  had  borne 
splendidly — the  ploughed  grass-lands  not  so  well,  except 
for  Forges  field,  which,  for  some  obscure  reason,  had 
brought  forth  a  rich  yield  from  its  sour  furrows.  On 
the  whole  the  wheat  promised  better  than  the  oats,  which 
in  spite  of  the  varieties  he  had  chosen  had  thickened  in 
the  clays,  and  grown  unwieldy  with  sedge  leaves  and  tulip 
roots. 

The  problem  of  harvesting  had  worried  him  for  a  long 
time,  for  Mus'  Beatup  absolutely  refused  to  buy  a  steam 
reaper-and-binder ;  he  wurn't  going  to  take  no  risks  in 
war-time,  and  Harry  must  make  what  shift  he  could  with 
the  old  horse  machine,  which  had  trundled  slowly  round 
the  few  acres  of  earlier  Worge  harvests,  and  must  even 
trundle  round  the  width  of  this  new  venture.  In  vain 
Harry  pointed  out  the  labour  needed  for  binding — he 
must  get  help,  that  was  all ;  the  family  would  turn  to,  as 
it  always  did  in  harvest  time.  The  absence  of  Ivy  was  a 
hard  blow — for  she  practically  did  the  work  of  a  man — 
but  he  found  an  unexpected  substitute  in  the  curate,  who 
with  the  other  country  clergy  had  been  episcopally  urged 
to  lend  a  hand  in  harvest  time.  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  had 
watched  young  Beatup's  effort  with  an  approval  which 
condoned  his  wobblings  between  Church  and  chapel,  and 
felt,  moreover,  that  his  help  might  send  a  balance  down 


IVY  195 

on  the  Church  side.  He  was  a  little  scandalised  to  find 
soon  after  that  Harry  had  also  drawn  in  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Sumption — the  curate's  offer  put  it  into  his  head ;  besides, 
it  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  one  asked  of  Mr.  Sumption — 
it  seemed  far  more  his  job  than  preaching  or  praying. 

The  other  helpers  would  just  be  the  family,  this  time 
including  Nell,  for  where  her  parson  went  she  could  go 
also,  in  spite  of  stained  and  welted  hands.  Elphick  and 
Juglery  could  do  about  one  man's  work  between  them,  and 
there  was  a  boy  over  school  age  on  the  loose  in  the 
village,  who  was  hired  for  ten  shillings  and  his  meals. 

Harry  had  written  to  Tom  and  told  him  of  his  matur- 
ing plans,  but  either  his  marriage  had  breached  him  from 
Worge,  or  the  fact  that  the  disciple  had  gone  so  much 
further  than  his  master  had  made  his  anxious  ardour 
cool  away.  His  latest  communication  had  been  a  field 
postcard,  which,  as  he  had  forgotten  to  put  a  cross  against 
any  of  its  various  items,  presented  a  bewildering  and  con- 
flicting mass  of  information,  which  Harry  flipped  into  the 
coals  with  a  wry  smile. 

However,  he  was  able  to  stand  alone,  for  he  dared  the 
chances  of  his  new  deeds.  Oafish  as  he  looked  in  his 
Sunday  suit  and  gasper  collar,  the  adventure  of  harvest 
was  upon  him  as  he  jolted  the  old  trap  home  under  the 
moon.  "  Behold,  the  fields  stand  white  to  harvest  "... 
the  words  drifted  like  a  cloud  over  his  brain.  These 
fields  that  he  had  prepared,  that  his  plough  had  torn  and 
his  harrow  broken,  were  fields  of  battle  like  the  fields 
in  France.  On  them  he  had  fought,  for  the  same  reason 
as  Tom  fought  the  Germans,  all  the  treacheries  and  as- 
saults of  nature,  her  raiding  winds,  her  storming  rains, 
her  undermining  rottenness  in  the  soil,  her  blasting  of 
thunder  and  choking  of  heat. 

"  Reckon  to-morrow's  our  Big  Push,"  he  said  to  his 
father,  rather  proud  of  the  metaphor,  and  was  careful 


196  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

that  the  old  horse  did  not  hurry  stablewards  too  quickly, 
lest  they  should  be  home  before  the  closing  of  the  Rifle 
Volunteer,  and  lose  a  soldier  thereby. 


13 

The  next  day  broke  out  of  a  dandelion  sky  above 
Harebeating,  but  before  the  first  pale  colours  had  filtered 
into  the  white  of  the  east,  Harry  was  on  his  legs,  pottering 
in  the  yard.  All  the  little  odds  of  farmwork  must  be 
done  early,  to  leave  him  free  for  the  day's  great  doings. 
He  anxiously  snuffed  the  raw  air — could  its  moisture, 
distilled  in  the  globes  that  hung  on  thatch  and  ricks,  be 
the  warning  of  a  day's  rain?  The  barometer  stood  high, 
but,  like  other  Sussex  farmers,  he  had  learned  to  distrust 
his  barometer,  knowing  the  sudden  tricks  of  turning 
winds,  the  local  rains  drunk  out  of  the  marshes,  the 
chopping  of  the  Channel  tides.  He  disliked  the  flamy 
look  of  the  sky,  the  glassiness  of  its  reflection  in  the 
ponds  ...  he  thought  he  felt  a  puff  from  the  south- 
west. "  O  Lord,"  he  prayed,  kneeling  down  behind  the 
cowhouse  door,  "  doan't  let  it  rain  till  we've  got  our 
harvest  in.  If  faather  loses  money  this  fall,  he'll  never 
let  me  breake  up  grass  agaun.  Please,  Lord,  kip  it  fine, 
wud  a  short  east  wind,  and  doan't  let  anyone  stay  away 
or  faather  go  to  the  Volunteer  till  we've  adone.  For 
Christ's  sake.  Amen." 

Feeling  soothed  and  reassured,  he  went  in  to  break- 
fast. 

The  family  was  of  mixed  and  uncertain  mood.  Mrs. 
Beatup  was  "  vrothering "  about  what  she  could  give 
the  clergymen  for  dinner — "  not  as  I  care  two  oald 
straws  about  Mus'  Sumption,  but  Mus'  Smith  he  mun 
be  guv  summat  gentlemanly  to  put  inside."  Zacky  was 
crossly  scheming  how  best  to  carry  through  the  conker 


IVY  197 

plan  which  Harry  had  rather  threateningly  forbidden. 
Nell  was  in  a  nervous  flutter,  her  colour  coming  and 
going,  her  little  hands  curling  and  twitching  under  the 
table.  Mus'  Beatup  was  given  over  to  an  orgie  of  pessi- 
mism, and  before  breakfast  was  finished  had  traced 
Worge's  progress  from  a  blundered  harvest  to  the  auc- 
tioneer's. 

"  There's  too  many  fields  gitting  ripe  together,"  he 
said  drearily.  "  You  shudn't  ought  to  have  maade  your 
sowings  so  close.  Wot  you  want  now  is  a  week's  fine 
weather  on  end,  and  all  your  wark  done  on  a  wunst. 
You'll  never  git  it,  surelye — the  rain  ull  be  on  you  before 
it's  over.  Reckon  the  Sunk  Field  ull  have  seeded  itself 
before  you're  at  it.  You  shud  ought  to  have  sown  it 
later." 

•"  It's  fine  time  to  think  of  all  that  now." 

"  I've  thought  of  it  afore  and  agaun,  but  you'd  never 
hearken.  You  think  you've  got  more  know  than  your 
faather  wot  wur  a  yeoman  afore  you  wur  born  and  never 
bruk  up  grass  in  his  life." 

"  There's  Mus'  Sumption,"  cried  Mrs.  Beatup,  look- 
ing out  of  the  window.  "He's  middling  early — reckon 
he  wants  some  breakfast." 

She  reckoned  right.  Mrs.  Hubble  of  the  Horselunges 
had  refused  to  get  breakfast  for  her  lodger  at  such  an 
ungodly  hour,  and  he  had  prowled  round  fasting  to  the 
Beatups,  eyeing  their  bacon  and  fried  bread  through  the 
window. 

"  The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,"  he  remarked  as 
he  sat  down  to  the  table,  "  and  thou  shalt  not  muzzle  the 
ox  which  treadeth  the  corn.  ..." 

After  breakfast  they  all  went  out  to  the  Volunteer 
field,  which  was  to  be  cut  first.  Harry  took  charge  of  the 
reaper,  with  Zacky  a  scowling  protestant  at  the  horse's 
head,  while  the  others  turned  to  the  sickling  and  binding. 


198  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Mr.  Poullett-Smith  had  not  arrived,  having  first  to  read 
Mattins  and  eat  his  breakfast,  but  he  came  about  an  hour 
after  the  start,  a  tall,  bending,  monkish  figure,  feeling  just 
a  little  daring  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

The  meeting  of  the  two  parsons  was  friendliest  on 
the  Anglican  side.  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  was  a  good 
example  of  the  Church  of  England's  vocation  "  to  pro- 
vide a  resident  gentleman  for  every  parish  "- — besides, 
he  pitied  Sumption.  The  fellow  was  so  obviously  mis- 
fitted by  his  pastorate — a  fanatical,  ignorant  Calvinism, 
blown  about  by  eschatological  winds,  was  his  whole 
equipment ;  otherwise,  thought  the  curate,  he  had  neither 
dignity,  knowledge  nor  education.  He  would  have  been 
far  happier  had  he  been  left  a  blacksmith,  had  his  half- 
crazy  visions  been  allowed  to  burn  themselves  out  like  his 
forge  fires,  instead  of  being  stoked  by  mistaken  patronage 
and  inadequate  theological  training.  As  things  stood,  he 
was  absurd,  even  in  no  worthier  setting  than  a  forgotten 
village  Bethel — a  mere  caricature  of  a  minister,  even  in 
the  pulpit  of  the  Particular  Baptists,  an  old-fashioned  and 
fanatical  sect  with  their  heads  full  of  doomsday.  But 
here  among  the  reapers  he  was  splendid.  His  open  shirt 
displayed  a  neck  strong  and  supple  and  plump  as  a  boy's 
— the  grey  homespun  was  stuck  with  sweat  to  his  shoul- 
ders, and  the  huge  muscles  of  his  back  showed  under  it 
in  long  ovoid  lumps.  His  years  had  taken  nothing  from 
his  strength,  merely  added  to  his  solidness  and  endur- 
ance. With  his  shock  of  brindled  curls,  his  comely  brown 
skin,  his  teeth  white  as  barley-kernels,  and  eyes  bright  and 
deep  as  a  hammer  pond,  and  all  the  splendour  of  his  body 
from  shoulder  to  heel,  he  was  as  fine  a  specimen  of  a 
man  as  he  was  a  poor  specimen  of  a  minister.  Mr.  Poul- 
lett-Smith paid  him  the  honour  due  to  his  body,  while 
seeing  no  honour  due  to  his  soul. 

Mr.  Sumption  felt  his  physical  superiority  to  the  wil- 


IVY  199 

lowy,  tallow-faced  curate ;  indeed  he  had  a  double  advan- 
tage over  him,  for  he  felt  a  spiritual  towering  too.  He 
despised  his  doctrines  of  Universal  Redemption  and 
Sacramental  Grace  just  as  much  as  he  despised  his  lean 
white  arms  and  delicate  features.  He  gave  his  hand  a 
grip  that  made  him  wince — he  could  feel  the  bones  crack- 
ing under  the  pressure  ..."  He  keeps  his  hands  white 
that  he  may  hold  the  Lord's  body,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

The  day  was  hot  and  misty.  The  blue  sky  glowed 
with  a  thick,  soft  heat,  and  a  yellowish  haze  blurred 
hedges  and  barns.  Even  the  roofs  of  Worge  seemed  far 
away,  and  the  sounds  of  the  neighbouring  farms  were 
dim — but  distant  sounds  came  more  clearly,  a  siren 
crooned  on  the  far-off  sea,  and  the  mutter  of  guns  came 
like  a  tread  over  the  motionless  air.  Harry  heard  it  as 
he  drove  the  reaper,  mingling  with  the  swish  of  sickles 
and  the  rub  of  hones. 

For  greater  quickness,  he  had  split  the  field  into  two 
unequal  parts — the  bigger  one  he  was  cutting  with  the 
reaper,  the  smaller  was  being  cut  by  hand.  Mr.  Sump- 
tion, Mus'  Beatup  and  Elphick  reaped,  while  Nell,  the 
curate,  Juglery  and  the  boy  from  Prospect  Cottages 
bound  the  sheaves.  The  old  horse  went  so  slowly  that  the 
sickles  worked  nearly  as  fast  as  the  machine.  After  a 
time  Harry  gave  up  his  place  to  his  father,  who  had  been 
unfitted  by  illness  and  intemperance  for  much  strenuous 
work. 

At  first  there  was  some  talking  and  joking  among  the 
harvesters,  but  soon  this  wore  to  silence  in  the  heat. 
Only  from  where  Mr.  Smith  and  Nell  stooped  together 
over  the  reaped  corn,  gathering  it  into  sheaves,  came 
murmurs  of  sound.  Nell's  pale  cheeks  and  lips  were 
flushed  with  her  toil  and  stooping,  and  her  eyes  were 
bright  with  a  pleasure  which  toil  cannot  give.  Her  cotton 
dress,  the  colour  of  the  sky,  set  out  the  brightness  of  her 


200  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

hair,  the  colour  of  the  corn.  Her  graceful,  ineffectual 
hands,  too,  pleased  the  curate,  for  they  were  the  only  pair 
besides  his  in  the  field  which  were  not  coarse  and  burnt, 
with  stubbed,  black  nails.  Moreover,  her  pleasure  and  ex- 
excitement  at  the  day's  long  promise  made  her  more 
talkative  than  usual,  and  to  a  better  purpose.  He  found 
that  he  liked  her  pleasant,  blurry  voice,  which  fled  and 
fluttered  over  her  words  for  fear  that  she  should  drawl 
them. 

The  sun  climbed  to  the  zenith,  and  the  heat  not  only 
baked  down  from  the  sky,  but  scorched  up  out  of  the 
ground.  The  dust  of  the  earth  and  of  cornstalks  filled 
the  air  with  a  choking,  chaffy  thickness.  The  smell  of 
dust  came  from  the  road,  and  from  farmyards  the  smell 
of  baking  mud.  The  black  oasts  of  Egypt  across  the  way 
swam  in  a  cloud  of  heat,  and  the  red  oasts  of  Worge  were 
smeared  to  shadows  in  the  steam  of  sunshine  and  dust. 
An  aching  of  blue  and  yellow  was  in  the  harvesters'  eyes, 
and  their  bodies  seemed  to  melt  and  drip.  The  reaper 
crawled  even  more  slowly,  with  Mus'  Beatup  sagging 
drowsily  over  the  reins,  and  Zacky  drooping  against  old 
Tassell,  whose  flanks  ran  with  sweat,  and  from  whose 
steaming  hide  came  ammoniacal  stable  smells,  whiffing 
over  the  harvesters  every  time  he  passed. 

Mr.  Poullett-Smith  looked  more  than  ever  like  a 
Sienese  candle  now  that  his  forehead  and  cheeks  were 
dabbled  with  sweat,  like  wax  that  had  melted  and  run. 
He  wiped  his  face  periodically  with  a  white  handkerchief, 
which  annoyed  Mr.  Sumption,  though  it  was  a  fact  that 
the  curate  had  done  excellent  work,  and  made  up  in 
conscientious  energy  what  he  lacked  in  muscle  and 
experience. 

"  Take  off  your  waistcoat,  or  your  sweat  ull  spoil  the 
lining,"  called  the  minister,  and  Mr.  Smith  rather  un- 
expectedly followed  his  advice,  having,  as  it  happened, 


IVY  201 

quite  lost  sight  of  the  pastor  in  that  huge  toiling  figure, 
now  almost  bare  of  chest,  with  arms  swinging  like  a 
flail.  He  saw  only  a  labourer  more  experienced  and  a 
man  more  manly  than  himself,  whose  muscle  he  re- 
spected and  whose  commands  he  would  obey. 

From  twelve  o'clock  onwards  the  problem  for  Harry 
had  been  to  keep  Mus'  Beatup  away  from  the  Rifle 
Volunteer.  The  field  being  near  the  Street,  they  could 
hear  the  pleasing  jar  of  stopping  wheels,  the  slam  of 
the  taproom  door,  even  the  creak  of  the  Volunteer  sign. 
As  he  swung  out  there  over  the  Street,  with  his  grey- 
green  uniform  and  obsolete  rifle,  he  seemed  to  say,  "  In 
my  day  yeomen  never  worked  at  noon,  but  came  and 
drank  good  beer  made  of  Sussex  hops  and  talked  of  how 
we'd  beat  the  French.  .  .  .  Now  there  is  no  good  beer, 
and  hardly  any  Sussex  hops,  and  we  talk  of  how  we  and 
the  French  together  will  beat  the  Germans.  But  come, 
good  yeomen,  all  the  same." 

Harry  thought  it  advisable  to  detach  Mus'  Beatup 
from  the  reaper,  which  trundled  him  up  under  the  eaves 
of  the  Volunteer's  huge  sprawling  roof,  so  he  suggested 
that  old  Juglery  should  take  his  place  for  a  while,  and 
that  Mus'  Beatup  should  help  with  the  binding.  He  also 
persuaded  Mr.  Sumption  to  give  up  his  sickle  and  bind 
till  closing-time.  He  felt  that  if  his  father  worked  be- 
tween the  two  parsons  he  would  not  be  so  likely  to  scuffle 
an  escape;  for  in  spite  of  his  rationalist  enlightenment, 
Mus'  Beatup's  attitude  in  the  presence  of  the  clergy  was 
very  different  from  that  which  he  took  up  in  their  ab- 
sence— and  his  contempt  of  their  doctrine  was  liable  to 
be  swallowed  up  in  respect  for  their  cloth. 

Dinner  was  brought  out  soon  after  noon  by  Mrs. 
Beatup  and  the  girl,  a  hard-breathing  young  person  with 
a  complexion  like  an  over-ripe  plum.  There  was  beer, 
and  there  was  tea,  and  bread  and  cheese — Mrs.  Beatup's 


202  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

idea  of  summat  gentlemanly  to  put  inside  the  clergyman 
materialised  in  several  crumbly  sandwiches  of  tinned  cur- 
ried rabbit.  They  all  sat  down  under  the  hedge  furthest 
from  the  Volunteer,  and  were  all  rather  silent,  except 
Mr.  Sumption,  who  had  scarcely  tired  himself  with  the 
morning's  work  and  thought  this  a  good  opportunity  to 
enter  into  an  argument,  or  "  hold  a  conference,"  as  he 
put  it,  with  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  on  the  doctrine  of  Effica- 
cious Grace.  Mr.  Smith,  besides  the  reluctance  of  his 
Anglican  breeding  to  discuss  theology  with  an  outsider, 
and  his  feeling  as  a  public-school  man  that  it  was  bad 
form  to  talk  shop  in  mixed  company,  was  far  from  theo- 
logically minded.  Though  he  would  not  have  owned  it 
for  worlds,  he  was  already  tired  out.  The  continual 
stooping  with  the  hot  sun  on  his  back  had  made  him  feel 
sick  and  dizzy,  and  Mrs.  Beatup's  curried  sandwiches  had 
finished  the  work  of  the  sun  and  roused  definite  symptoms 
of  an  indelicate  nature.  He  lay  against  the  hedge,  looking 
languid  and  curiously  human  in  his  open  shirt,  his  hair 
hanging  a  little  over  his  forehead.  Nell  sat  on  her  heels, 
and  her  eyes  played  over  him  tenderly,  almost  maternally. 

"  Reckon  you're  tired,"  she  said  in  a  low,  drawling 
voice  that  no  one  else  could  hear. 

They  did  not  go  back  to  work  till  nearly  two,  and  the 
danger  for  Mus'  Beatup  was  over  for  the  time.  The 
afternoon  was,  as  usual,  more  tiring  than  the  morning, 
for  the  earth,  if  not  the  sun,  was  hotter,  limbs  were  tired 
and  stomachs  were  full.  Harry  mounted  the  curate  on 
the  reaper,  though  he  was  not  much  of  a  success,  as  he 
failed  to  realise  the  power  of  old  Tassell's  habit,  and  did 
vigorous  rein-work  at  the  corners,  with  the  result  that  the 
old  horse  was  thrown  completely  off  his  bearings,  and  on 
one  occasion  nearly  charged  down  the  hedge,  on  another 
knocked  over  Zacky,  and  once  came  wearily  to  a  stand- 
still with  all  four  feet  in  the  uncut  corn. 


IVY  203 

Mr.  Poullett-Smith  decided  that  he  preferred  binding 
to  reaping,  and  was  glad  to  find  himself  back  beside 
Nell  with  her  delicate  ways — it  was  wonderful,  he 
thought,  how  far  she  was  above  her  surroundings;  he 
had  not  noticed  it  before,  for  he  had  hardly  ever  seen 
her  against  the  background  of  Worge,  but  in  the  frame 
of  church  or  school,  where  her  shining  was  not  so  bright. 
She  was  tired,  he  could  see,  but  she  did  not  grow  moist 
and  blowsy  like  the  rest — her  pretty  hair  draggled  a  bit, 
her  mouth  drooped  rather  sweetly,  but  exertion  heigh- 
tened her  anaemic  tints,  and  there  was  a  glow  about  her 
when  she  talked,  in  spite  of  her  fatigue. 

Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  she  broke 
away  from  him,  and  came  back  with  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Is  that  for  me  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  as  she  held  it  out. 

"  Yes.    I  thought  you  must  be  getting  thirsty." 

"  I  am — but  aren't  you  thirsty,  too  ?  " 

"  I  had  something  to  drink  in  the  house — this  is  yours," 
and  she  watched  him  drink  with  an  eager  sweetness  and 
humility  in  her  eyes. 

14 

For  the  next  two  or  three  days  the  work  went  well. 
The  Volunteer  Field  was  reaped,  and  then  the  Street 
Field ;  the  Sunk  and  Forges  must  be  ^tackled  before  the 
fine  weather  came  to  an  end,  but  the  low  grounds  by 
Bucksteep  might  be  left  to  stand  a  little,  being  sheltered, 
and  not  quite  ready  for  harvest.  Harry's  mixed  gang  of 
helpers  was  a  bigger  success  than  he  had  dared  hope. 
Mr.  Sumption  was  even  better  the  second  day  than  the 
first,  having  worked  down  a  stiffness  which  his  big 
muscles  had  acquired  from  long  disuse.  Even  Mrs. 
Beatup  was  impressed,  and  gave  him  a  fine  breakfast 
every  morning.  The  other  clergyman  was  not  so  useful, 
but  he  made  up  in  effort  what  he  lacked  in  achievement, 


204  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

and  by  Friday  was  doing  quite  a  creditable  day's  work. 
Nell  was  not,  of  course,  much  good,  still,  she  was  better 
than  nothing,  and  more  energetic  and  good-humoured 
than  Harry  had  ever  seen  her.  Zacky  and  the  hired  boy 
conspired  in  laziness  and  evil-doing,  and  Harry  was 
grateful  when  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sumption  took  it  upon  him- 
self to  knock  their  heads  together. 

On  Friday  evening  grey  smears  of  cloud  lay  on  a 
strange  whiteness  in  the  west,  and  on  Saturday  the  whole 
sky  was  smudged  over  with  a  pale  opacity,  and  the  wind 
blew  from  the  South.  The  labourers  found  relief  from 
the  stewing,  chaffy  stillness  of  the  last  few  days ;  but 
Harry  snuffed  the  air  and  looked  wise. 

"  The  weather's  breaking  up,"  he  said  to  his  father 
in  the  dinner-hour.  "  We'll  have  to  work  on  Sunday." 

"  Wud  two  passons !  "  cried  Mus'  Beatup.  "  They'll 
never  coame.  They'll  be  preaching  tales  about  dead 
men." 

"  Reckon  we  must  do  wudout  them.  We  durn't  leave 
the  Sunk  Field  till  after  the  weather.  Bucksteep  can 
wait,  surelye,  but  the  Sunk  must  be  reaped  before  the 
rain." 

Mus'  Beatup  groaned — "  That's  the  wust  of  doing 
aught  wud  passons.  'Tis  naun  to  them  if  it  rains  on 
Monday — all  they  care  is  that  a  dunnamany  hunderd 
'years  agone  it  rained  forty  days  and  forty  nights  and 
drownded  all  the  world  saave  Noah  and  his  beasts. 
Bah !  "  and  Mus'  Beatup  spat  into  the  hedge. 

However,  to  their  surprise,  they  found  both  the  parsons 
ready  to  work  on  Sunday.  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  had  no 
less  authority  than  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury — the 
Archbishop  quoted  Christ's  saying  of  the  ox  in  the  pit, 
and  gave  like  indulgence  to  all  Churchmen.  The  Rev. 
Mr.  Sumption  appeared  with  no  such  sanctions. 

"  I've  got  no  Randall  Cantuar  or  Charles  John  Chi- 


IVY  205 

Chester  to  tell  me  I  may  break  the  Lord's  commandments. 
Reckon  the  Assembly  ull  be  against  me  in  this,  and  the 
Lord  Himself  ull  be  against  me;  but  I'll  risk  it.  For 
you're  a  good  lad,  Harry  Beatup,  and  I'm  going  to  stand 
by  you,  and  if  the  Lord  visits  it  on  me  I  must  bow  to 
His  will." 

When  service-time  came  he  had  the  advantage,  for  he 
polished  off  his  bewildered  congregation  in  only  a  little 
over  half  an  hour,  whereas  the  curate  was  nearly  two 
hours  at  Brownbread  Street,  with  a  sung  Eucharist.  "  I 
can  say  what  I  like  and  pray  what  I  like,"  said  Mr. 
Sumption.  "  I'm  not  tied  down  to  a  Roman  Mass-book 
dressed-up  Protestant." 

Mr.  Smith  heard  him  in  silence.  His  respect  for  him 
as  a  man  and  a  labourer  still  outweighed  his  contempt 
for  him  as  preacher  and  theologian.  Also  he  now  felt 
that  in  matters  of  religion  Mr.  Sumption  was  slightly 
crazed.  He  could  handle  a  horse  or  a  hammer  or  a 
sickle  with  sureness  and  skill,  and  talk  of  them  with 
sanity  and  knowledge,  but  once  let  him  mount  his 
religious  notions  and  he  would  ride  to  the  devil.  Mr. 
Smith  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  one  of  those 
crack-brained  people  who  believed  that  the  war  was  the 
end  of  the  world,  the  Consummation  of  the  Age  foretold 
in  Scripture,  and  that  soon  Christ  would  come  again  in  the 
clouds  with  great  glory. — This  really  was  what  Mr.  Sump- 
tion believed,  so  Mr.  Smith  did  not  misjudge  him  much. 

By  noon  on  Sunday  dark  clouds  were  swagging  up 
from  the  south-west,  with  a  screaming  wind  before  them. 
The  fog  and  dust  of  the  last  few  days  had  been  followed 
by  an  unnatural  clearness — each  copse  and  fields  and  pond 
and  lane  in  the  country  of  the  Four  Roads  stood  sharply 
out,  with  inky  tones  in  its  colouring.  The  fields  sweep- 
ing down  from  Sunday  Street  to  Horse  Eye  were  shaded 
from  indigo  almost  to  black,  and  on  the  marsh  the  slat- 


206  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

ting  water-courses  gleamed  like  steel  on  the  heavy  teal- 
green  of  their  levels.  The  sea  was  drawn  in  a  black  line 
against  a  thick,  unhealthy  white  sky,  blotched  and 
straggled  with  grey. 

"  It'll  rain  before  dusk,"  said  Harry.  "  It  can't  hoald 
out  much  longer." 

"  We'll  never  git  the  field  shocked,  let  alone  brought 
in,"  said  Mus'  Beatup.  "  Here  we've  bin  five  hour  and 
not  maade  more'n  a  beginning — it's  lamentaable.  Reckon 
we  might  as  well  let  the  Germans  beat  us — we  cudn't  have 
wuss  weather." 

Harry  set  his  teeth. 

"  We'll  git  it  finished  afore  the  rain." 

"  Afore  your  grandmother  dies,"  jeered  Mus'  Beatup. 
"  I'm  off  to  the  Volunteer." 

"  And  leave  us.  ...  Faather !  " 

"  I'm  not  a-going  to  stay  here  catching  my  death  wud 
rheumatics,  working  in  the  rain  under  my  son's  orders. 
Reckon  you'd  sooner  see  me  dead  than  lose  your  hemmed 
oats — my  hemmed  oats  I  shud  say — but  I—"  and  Mus' 
Beatup  swung  up  his  chin  haughtily — "  have  different 
feelings." 

"  Reckon  you  have,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashaumed 
of  yourself !  "  cried  Harry  thickly,  then  flushed  in  self 
rebuke,  for  on  the  whole  he  was  a  respectful  son. 

Mus'  Beatup  sauntered  away,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  shoulders  hunched  to  his  ears — his  usual  attitude 
when  he  felt  guilty  but  wanted  to  look  swaggering.  Mr. 
Sumption  and  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  were  both  at  the 
further  end  of  the  field,  and  no  opposition  stood  between 
him  and  the  Rifle  Volunteer  save  the  doubtful  quality 
his  wife  might  offer  from  the  kitchen  window.  Harry 
watched  him  with  burning  cheeks  and  a  full  throat. 
"  Reckon  I'm  lik  to  kip  temperance  all  my  days  wud 
this,"  he  mumbled  bitterly. 


IVY  207 

He  then  went  down  to  the  other  workers,  and  told 
them  that  it  was  going  to  rain  and  that  they  were  a 
labourer  short,  as  his  father  was  feeling  ill  and  had  gone 
indoors  to  rest,  but  that  he  hoped  by  "  tar'ble  hard  wark  " 
to  get  the  field  cut  before  the  storm.  "If  the  grain's 
shocked,  it'll  bear  the  rain,  but  if  it's  left  standing,  the 
rain  ull  beat  down  the  straw,  and  all  the  seed  ull  fly. 
Juglery,  you  taake  the  reaper — Norry  Noakes,  you  git  to 
Tassell's  head — Mus'  Sumption  and  Elphick  and  I  ull 
reap,  and  Mus'  Smith  and  Nell  and  Zacky  bind.  .  .  . 
Now  I  reckon  'tis  a  fight  'twixt  us  and  them  gurt  clouds 
over  Galleybird." 

Elphick  and  Juglery  were  inclined  to  grumble  at  hav- 
ing their  dinner-hour  cut  short,  and  talked  of  judgments 
equally  bestowed  on  "  them  wot  bruk  the  Sabbath  "  and 
"  them  wot  bruk  up  grass."  But  Mus'  Sumption's  pro- 
fessional opinion  was  that  the  approaching  storm  was  not 
in  the  nature  of  a  punitive  expedition — "  If  the  Lord  had 
wanted  to  spoil  this  harvest,  He  would  have  done  it  on 
Thursday  or  Friday;  now  all  He'll  get  is  the  tail-end, 
and  not  that  if  I  can  help  it." 

He  bent  his  huge  back  to  the  sickle,  and  worked  for 
the  next  hour  without  straightening.  Mr.  Poullett-Smith 
decided  to  forget  the  Sunday-school  he  was  supposed  to 
catechise  at  three,  and  Nell  to  forget  the  headache  which 
would  probably  have  sent  her  off  the  field  at  the  same 
hour.  Norry  Noakes  and  Zacky,  seeing  their  deliverance 
nigh,  put  more  energy  into  that  afternoon  than  they  had 
put  into  all  four  other  days  of  harvest — Norry  nearly 
dragged  Tassell's  head  off  his  neck  in  his  efforts  to  make 
him  go  faster. 

At  about  three  o'clock,  Mr.  Sumption  stood  up  and 
scanned  the  fields  under  his  hand  like  Elijah's  servant 
watching  for  rain.  Then  he  gave  a  shout  that  made 
everyone  start  and  straighten  their  backs. 


208  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Lo !  the  Lord  is  on  our  side — behold  more  labourers 
for  the  harvest." 

Two  figures  were  coming  down  the  field  from  Worge — 
Ivy  Beatup  and  a  soldier.  Ivy  wore  a  pink  cotton  dress, 
belling  out  all  round  her  with  the  wind  and  flapping 
against  the  soldier's  legs.  She  also  carried  unexpectedly 
a  pink  parasol. 

"  Thought  I'd  come  over  and  see  you  all !  "  she  bawled 
as  soon  as  she  was  within  earshot.  "  This  is  Sergeant 
Eric  Staples  from  Canada." 

.  .  .  Canada!  Then  no  doubt  he  knew  a  bit  about 
harvesting.  Harry  went  forward  to  meet  them. 

"  Mother  toald  us  you'd  half  the  Sunk  to  reap  before 
the  weather,"  said  Ivy,  at  closer  range,  "so  I  said  we'd 
come  and  give  you  a  hand,  surelye." 

"  We'll  be  unaccountable  glad  to  have  you  both — the 
rain's  blowing  up  and  we're  short  of  workers." 

"  I'm  on  it,  as  the  boys  say,  and  so's  the  Sergeant,  I 
reckon." 

"  Sure,"  said  Sergeant  Staples,  staring  round  him. 

"  Mother's  gitting  a  valiant  supper  fur  us  when  'tis  all 
a-done.  She  says  if  you've  bruk  the  Sabbath  one  way 
you  may  as  well  break  it  another  and  maake  a  good  job 
of  it.  Thyrza's  coming,  and  is  bringing  all  her  tinned 
salmon.  Wot  do  you  think  of  my  sunshade,  Nell? — 
reckon  it's  unaccountable  smart,"  and  Ivy  threw  it  down 
into  the  stubble  and  began  rolling  up  her  sleeves. 

"  It's  middling  kind  of  you,"  said  Harry  politely  to 
Sergeant  Staples. 

"  Only  too  glad — I've  done  a  power  of  this  work  over 
in  Sask.  May  I  ask  what  this  little  buggy  is  ? " — 
and  he  pointed  to  the  nodding  erection  of  old  Jug- 
lery  chaired  above  the  reins  that  slacked  on  Tassell's 
rump. 

"  That's  the  reaper,  surelye." 


IVY  209 

The  Canadian  did  not  speak,  but  the  puzzled  look 
deepened  on  his  face. 

"  Maybe  you'll  taake  a  sickle,  being  handy-like  ?  " 

"  Sure  " — but  when  Harry  gave  him  Mus'  Beatup's 
discarded  weapon  he  held  it  at  arm's  length  and  scratched 
his  head.  Then  he  slid  up  to  Ivy — 

"  Say,  kid,  I  never  heard  before  as  in  the  old  country 
they  cut  corn  with  a  pocket-knife." 

However,  he  swung  his  tool  handily,  and  with  the  two 
new  workers,  and  the  extra  energy  of  the  old,  the  reaping 
went  forward  at  a  pace  which  threatened  the  victory  of 
those  black  clouds  over  Galleybird. 

The  wind  blew  in  droning  gusts,  swishing  in  the  corn, 
and  riddling  in  the  boughs  of  Forges  Wood.  Dead  leaves 
began  to  fly  out  of  the  wood,  the  threat  of  autumn.  The 
men's  shirts  blew  against  their  skins,  and  the  women's 
skirts  flew  out ;  the  colours  of  the  field  grew  dim — the 
corn  was  white,  the  wood  and  the  hedges  were  grey — 
only  the  clothes  of  the  harvesters  stood  out  in  smudges 
of  pink  and  blue.  Then  suddenly  rain  began  to  squirt 
down  out  of  a  black  smeary  sky  like  charcoal — the  wind 
screamed,  almost  flattening  the  few  last  rods.  No  one 
spoke,  for  no  voice  could  be  heard  above  the  howling  of 
the  wind.  Rabbits  began  to  pop  out  of  the  corn,  but  there 
were  no  hunting  dogs,  no  shouting  groups  from  the  cot- 
tages come  out  to  see  the  fun.  When  the  last  sickleful 
had  been  cut,  and  the  reaper  stood  still,  with  old  Juglery 
asleep  on  the  seat,  the  harvesters  picked  up  their  coats 
and  pulled  down  their  sleeves  without  a  word. 

They  were  wet  through — the  muscles  of  the  men's 
bodies  showed  through  their  clinging  shirts  and  the 
women  were  wringing  their  gowns.  But  the  Sunk  Field 
was  reaped  and  Harry's  harvest  saved.  He  had  won  his 
battle  against  his  own  ignorance,  his  father's  indifference, 
and  the  earth's  treacheries.  He  had  vindicated  his  dar- 


210  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

ing,  and  he  would  never  know  how  small  was  the  thing  he 
had  done — a  few  scrubby  acres  sown  and  reaped,  a  few 
mean  quarters  of  indifferent  grain  gathered  in — he  would 
never  hear  Sergeant  Staples  say  to  Sergeant  Speed  of  the 
North-West  Provinces  that  he  had  spent  a  slack  after- 
noon cutting  mustard  and  cress  with  a  pocket-knife. 

Food  was  waiting  up  at  the  farm,  with  Thyrza  Beatup, 
who,  for  obvious  reasons  now,  had  been  unable  to  help 
with  the  harvest,  but  had  done  her  best  by  contributing 
her  entire  stock  of  tinned  salmon  to  the  harvest-supper. 
The  party  began  to  move  off,  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  wrap- 
ping his  coat  over  Nell's  shoulders  with  hands  that  per- 
haps strayed  a  little  to  touch  her  neck.  Only  Mr.  Sump- 
tion was  left,  standing  upright  and  stockish  on  the  rise  of 
the  field,  a  huge  black  shape  against  the  sky. 

"  Come  along,  Mus'  Sumption,"  called  Ivy,  "  and  git 
a  nice  tea-supper.  Thur's  tinned  salmon  and  a  caake." 

Mr.  Sumption's  voice  came  to  them  on  the  scream  of 
the  wind — 

"  Shall  I  go  without  thanking  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest 
for  His  mercies  in  allowing  us  to  gather  in  the  fruits  of 
the  earth  on  the  Sabbath  Day  ?  " 

"  He's  praying,"  said  Nell,  with  a  shiver  of  disgust  in 
her  voice. 

The  curate  bit  his  lip. 

"  He's  perfectly  right,"  he  said,  and  going  up  to  the 
minister,  he  knelt  down  in  the  stubble.  The  others  hud- 
dled in  a  sheepish  group  by  the  gate.  Mr.  Sumption's 
prayer  was  blown  over  their  heads,  washed  into  the  woods 
on  the  rain,  but  they  could  hear  the  groan  of  his  big 
voice  in  the  wind,  and  here  and  there  a  word  of  his 
familiar  prayer-vocabulary.  ..."  Lord  .  .  .  day  .  .  . 
oven  .  .  .  wicked  .  .  .  righteous  .  .  .  Satan  .  .  .  save 
.  .  .  forgive.  .  .  .  Amen." 


PART  V:      NELL 


AJTUMN  came,  and  gradually  the  farm-work  slack- 
ened. The  Bucksteep  acres  were  cut,  not  much  the 
worse  for  the  storm — the  hops  were  picked,  and 
showed  a  fair  crop  of  fuggles,  though  the  goldings  had 
not  done  so  well.  Harry  sowed  catch  crops  of  trifolium 
and  Italian  rye  grass,  and  started  his  autumn  ploughings. 
Certain  reactions  had  seized  him  after  the  harvest,  and 
he  had  gone  off  wandering  in  the  fields,  away  to  villages 
where  he  had  not  strayed  for  months  except  to  mar- 
ket. But  the  lapse  had  been  short,  for  the  adventure  of 
Worge's  acres  was  not  dead — his  imagination  had  now 
its  headquarters  and  sanctuary  in  the  fields  where  he 
worked ;  he  had  no  need  to  seek  dreams  and  beauty  far 
away,  for  they  grew  at  his  barndoor,  and  he  strawed 
them  in  the  furrows  with  his  grain. 

Tom's  dwindling  zeal  was  reawakened  by  the  account 
of  the  harvest  which  Harry  scrawled  to  France — "  Nine 
quarters  we  got  from  the  Volunteer  Field  and  five  from 
the  Sunk  and  six  from  Forges.  Hops  and  roots  did 
middling.  All  the  potash  fields  were  valiant.  Maybe 
next  year  Father  will  buy  a  reaper-and-binder.  The 
Reverend  Mr.  Sumption  was  proper  at  the  harvest." 
His  brother  wrote  back  a  letter  of  which  "  Well  done, 
young  'un  "  was  the  refrain.  "  Queer,"  he  wrote,  "  but 
there's  a  Forges  Wood  out  here — they  say  the  5th  Sussex 
named  it  and  it  was  called  something  French  before.  It 
is  not  like  Forges,  for  it  is  narrow  like  a  dibble  and  the 
trees  have  no  branches,  being  knocked  off  by  crumps  and 

211 


212  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

nothing  grows  there  becos  of  the  gas.  There  are  dead 
horses  in  it." 

Tom  had  seen  plenty  of  fighting  that  autumn  in 
Paschendaele,  but  was  so  far  well  and  unhurt.  He  sent 
Thyrza  home  a  bit  of  shell  which  had  knocked  off  his  tin 
hat  and  "  shocked  him  all  of  a  swum."  Everyone,  he 
wrote,  had  laughed  fit  to  bust  at  it — Thyrza  thought 
that  they  laughed  at  queer  things  in  the  trenches.  She 
fretted  a  little  during  those  autumn  days,  for  her  hope 
was  now  almost  a  torment  .  .  .  suppose  Tom  should 
never  see  the  child  their  love  had  made.  Every  day  in 
the  paper  there  were  long  casualty  lists,  every  day  tele- 
graph boys  and  girls  went  peddling  to  happy  homes  and 
blasted  them  with  a  slip  of  paper.  They  had  knocked 
at  doors  in  the  country  of  the  Four  Roads — the  eldest 
Fix  had  been  killed  early  in  October;  then  there  had 
been  the  butcher's  son  at  Bodle  Street,  and  the  lawyer's 
son  at  Hailsham,  and  poor  Mus'  Piper's  boy  had  lost 
both  legs.  .  .  .  The  world  looked  suddenly  very  grey 
and  treacherous  to  Thyrza;  she  dared  not  hope,  lest 
hope  should  betray  her,  and  her  few  moments  of  peaceful 
mother-happiness  were  riddled  with  doubts.  Oh,  if  only 
God  would  let  her  have  Tom  back  somehow,  no  matter 
how  maimed,  how  helpless,  how  dependent  on  her.  .  .  . 
Then  she  would  suddenly  react  from  her  desire,  shrink 
back  in  horror  at  the  thought  of  Tom  wounded,  his 
strong  sweet  body  all  sick  and  disfigured.  ..."  Better 
dead,"  she  would  groan — and  yet,  a  dead  father  for  her 
child.  .  .  .  She  found  war  a  very  tar'ble  thing. 

During  the  earlier  years  she  had,  in  company  with 
most  people  in  the  country  of  the  Four  Roads,  passed 
lightly  under  its  yoke.  Even  her  widowhood  had  not 
brought  it  down  upon  her — Sam  had  so  often  left  her, 
might  so  easily  have  come  to  grief  in  other  ways.  Except 
for  those  who  were  actually  and  poignantly  bereaved, 


NELL  213 

the  War  made  little  difference  to  a  large  multitude  for 
whom  it  existed  only  in  France  and  in  the  newspapers. 
For  a  big  section  of  England  it  did  not  begin  till  1916, 
for  it  was  not  till  then  that  it  actually  set  foot  on  English 
soil.  In  1916  the  Conscription  Act,  the  food  scarcity, 
and  War  Agricultural  Committees  dumped  it  down  on 
the  doorsteps  of  Sussex  folk  who  up  till  then  had  ignored 
it  as  a  furrin  business.  Thyrza  had  not  thought  about 
it  much — she  had  read  the  newspapers,  and  given  little 
bits  of  help  to  war  charities  that  appealed  to  her ;  but 
now  that  it  had  taken  the  man  she  loved,  it  had  taken 
her  too.  She  was  tied  with  him  to  its  chariot-wheels, 
one  of  the  nameless  victims  of  the  great  woe. 

Her  business,  too,  fretted  her.  She  was  not  able  for 
the  exertions  of  the  times,  and  was  worried  by  the  diffi- 
culties of  getting  supplies.  To  have  no  sweets  for  the 
little  children  who  came  in  with  their  pennies,  no  tea  for 
the  old  men  and  women  who  wanted  it  to  warm  and 
cheer  their  poor  rheumatic  bodies,  no  cheese  and  no 
bacon  for  the  young  men  who  worked  in  the  fields  .  .  . 
all  this  grieved  her  gentle  heart,  and  she  brooded  over  it 
in  a  way  she  would  not  have  done  had  she  been  in  her 
usual  health.  She  grew  pale  and  nervous,  found  she  had 
but  little  to  say  to  lingering  customers,  sat  huddled  limply 
over  her  fire,  rising  slowly  and  heavily  when  the  buzz 
of  the  little  bell  that  used  to  be  so  gay  forced  her  to  exert 
herself  and  go  to  the  door. 

In  this  state,  Mrs.  Beatup  took  pity  on  her,  and  forgot 
the  tacit  warfare  of  the  mother  on  the  wife.  If  Thyrza 
was  going  to  give  a  child  to  Tom,  she  was  also  going  to 
give  a  grandchild  to  Tom's  mother.  She  often  waddled 
down  to  the  shop  with  good  advice,  or  asked  Thyrza  up 
for  an  evening  at  Worge,  and  developed  a  new  and  un- 
expected optimism  for  her  comfort. 

"  Reckon  if  Tom's  alive  he'll  stick  alive  to  the  end — 


214  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

if  he'd  bin  going  to  be  killed  he'd  have  bin  killed  afore 
now.  Besides,  he  always  wur  the  chap  fur  luck.  I 
remember  how  when  he  wur  a  liddle  feller  he  slid  into 
the  pond,  and  we  all  thought  he'd  be  drownded,  but  Jug- 
lery  pulled  him  out,  and  his  faather  hided  him  nigh  out 
of  his  skin.  So  doan't  you  vrother,  my  dear,  but  kip  in 
good  heart  fur  the  saake  of  the  liddle  'un  wot's  coming. 
Tom  ull  live  to  see  un,  I  can  promise  you.  He  sims  un- 
accountable young  to  have  a  baby,  but  reckon  he'd  be 
younger  still  to  die." 


If  that  autumn  was  cruel  to  Thyrza  in  its  torture  of 
waxing  hope  it  was  crueller  still  to  Nell  in  its  torture  of 
hope's  dying.  For  a  week  after  the  harvest  she  had 
lived  in  flowery  fields  of  memory,  pied  with  all  bright 
colours.  When  she  shut  her  eyes  she  could  see  his  face 
bending  close  to  hers  over  the  shocked  corn,  his  thin 
delicate  hands  moving  among  the  straw,  sliding  close 
enough  to  hers  for  an  accidental  touch  .  .  .  she  could 
feel  them  brush  her  neck  as  he  helped  her  into  his  coat 
at  the  day's  end  of  prayer  and  storm.  .  .  . 

For  a  week  her  heart  drowsed  in  its  own  sweetness. 
Nell  was  happy,  she  grew  gentler  and  kinder.  She  was 
no  longer  an  ineffective  little  rebel,  full  of  disgusts  and 
grumbles — a  delicious  languor  was  upon  her,  a  bright 
dimness  which  veiled  all  the  jags  and  uglinesses  of  her 
life.  During  this  week  she  did  not  see  Mr.  Poullett- 
Smith,  but  her  mind  rested  sweetly  in  his  memory. 
Perhaps  the  physical  fatigue  of  the  harvest,  mixed  with 
the  natural  inertia  of  her  anaemic  condition,  both  had  a 
share  in  bringing  about  a  certain  passivity,  or  perhaps 
it  was  the  change  of  her  love  from  scourge  to  comfort 
which  put  an  end  to  all  her  old  restless  efforts  to  see  him, 
her  making  of  opportunities,  her  fretting  glances  from 


NELL  215 

the  schoolhouse  window,  her  nervous  strayings  to  church. 
Anyhow  she  did  not  see  him  till  Sunday,  when  her 
glorious  castle  fell. 

He  came  into  Sunday-school  as  usual,  with  a  benedic- 
tory smile.  Her  memories  of  him  in  his  open  shirt,  with 
his  face  all  red  and  shining  and  his  hair  caked  with  sweat 
on  his  forehead,  made  her  feel  a  little  shocked  to  see  him 
again  in  his  long  black  cassock,  above  which  his  face 
showed  waxy  and  white.  Perhaps  a  touch  of  sunburn 
lingered,  but  the  black  of  his  priestly  garment  wiped  it 
out.  Who  would  have  thought,  said  Nell  to  herself,  that 
this  day  a  week  ago  he  had  been  toiling  as  a  farmhand, 
with  bare  arms  and  throat,  alt  baked  and  burnt  and  dirty 
and  sweaty  .  .  .  ? 

He  greeted  the  superintendent,  and  talked  for  a  few 
moments  at  her  desk ;  then  he  came  down  among  the 
teachers  and  their  classes.  Nell  wore  a  white  blouse  and 
a  big  white  hat  like  an  ox-eyed  daisy.  Her  book  slid 
from  her  knee  to  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  scuffle  among 
her  children  as  Freddie  Gurr  from  Hazard's  Green 
dropped  the  worm  he  had  been  nursing  for  comfort 
through  the  chills  of  his  mediaeval  Sunday ;  but  she  did 
not  hear  as  she  half  rose  for  her  greeting,  then  sank  back, 
as  in  the  level,  indifferent  tones  in  which  he  had  said 
"  Good  morning,  Miss  Sinden — good  morning,  Miss  Fix," 
he  said  "  Good  morning,  Miss  Beatup,"  and  passed  on  to 
"  Good  morning,  Miss  Viner." 

Nell's  heart  constricted  with  pain.  She  told  herself 
that  she  was  a  fool  to  be  so  sensitive,  that  it  was  not 
likely  Mr.  Poullett-Smith  would  greet  her  publicly  in  the 
manner  of  their  harvest  friendship.  But  she  could  get 
no  comfort  from  her  self-rebuke,  for  deep  in  herself  she 
knew  that  she  was  wise.  Doubtless  there  was  no  im- 
portance to  be  attached  to  the  coldness  of  her  friend's 
greeting.  Nevertheless,  he  had  that  morning,  silently 


216  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

and  symbolically,  declared  the  gulf  between  them.  In 
the  cornfield,  working  as  her  comrade,  he  had  stood  for 
a  short  while  on  her  level — for  the  first  time  her  efforts 
to  attract  him  had  been  without  handicap.  But  now  the 
handicap  was  restored — he  was  the  Priest-in-Charge  of 
Brownbread  Street,  and  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
drunken  farmer.  If  for  a  few  hours  she  had  charmed 
him  out  of  his  eminent  sense  of  fitness,  the  charm  was 
over  now.  What  had  this  dignified,  cassocked  ecclesi- 
astic to  do  with  her,  a  poor  little  nobody?  His  friendli- 
ness during  their  common  toil  had  been  a  mere  passing 
emotion ;  probably  she  had  exaggerated  it — even  the  little 
her  memory  held  must  be  halved,  and  that  poor  remainder 
cancelled  out  by  the  probability  that  he  had  forgotten  it. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  curate  had  not  forgotten  it,  but 
the  attraction  had  not  been  robust  enough  to  survive  the 
loss  of  its  surroundings.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  un- 
wise and  rather  unkind  in  yielding  so  easily  to  a  mere 
temporary  prepossession.  His  more  solid  affections  had 
long  been  engaged  elsewhere,  and  he  spent  some  hours 
of  real  self-reproach  for  having  ever  so  briefly  faltered. 
He  might  have  put  ideas  into  the  girl's  head — they  had 
certainly  been  in  his  own.  However,  he  reflected,  there 
was  not  time  to  have  done  much  harm,  and  he  would  set 
matters  straight  at  once.  So  for  the  next  month  his  be- 
haviour to  Nell  was  unflaggingly  cold  and  polite,  and  at 
the  end  of  it  all  the  parish  was  told  of  his  engagement 
to  Marian  Lamb. 


There  were  days  of  desolation  for  Nell  Beatup  that 
November.  Her  disappointment  gripped  her  as  a  black 
frost  grips  the  fields ;  she  felt  powerless,  bound,  and 
sterile.  Even  the  last  month,  when  bit  by  bit  her  happy 
memories  were  destroyed,  when  she  learned  that  all  her 


NELL  217 

hopes  were  built  on  an  exaggeration,  a  mistake,  even  that 
month  of  slow  disillusion  had  been  better  than  this  black 
month  of  despair.  In  October  a  few  crumpled  leaves  had 
reddened  the  trees,  a  few  pale  draggled  flowers  had  sweet- 
ened the  garden,  a  bird  had  sometimes  perched  on  the 
gable  end  and  sung  before  he  flew  away.  But  now  the 
field?  were  black  and  the  woods  were  dun,  the  lanes  were 
a  poach  of  mud,  and  the  smell  of  mud  hung  above  field- 
gates  a/id  barns — a  clammy  mist  rose  from  the  ponds, 
making  the  air  substantial  with  the  taste  of  water  .  .  . 
tears  .  .  .  they  seemed  to  hang  in  the  rainy  clouds,  to 
dribble  from  the  trodden  earth,  and,  mixed  with  the  dead 
summer's  dust,  they  made  a  grey  slimy  mud  that  sobbed 
and  sucked  under  her  feet  on  her  daily  trudge  to  school. 

The  killing  of  her  hope  was  no  mercy.  Even  that  sick 
thing  had  been  better  than  this  emptiness,  this  death. 
Hope  had  sustained  her  for  years,  for  years  she  had  had 
nothing  more  robust  to  feed  on  than  her  pale  infatuation 
for  a  man  who  seldom  gave  her  crumbs.  She  had  become 
skilled  in  hoping,  long  practice  made  her  an  experienced 
artificer  of  hope,  able  to  build  a  palace  out  of  a  few 
broken  bricks.  She  had  never  known  any  other  love 
than  this  ghost  of  one,  so  there  had  never  been  a  chance 
of  its  dying  of  comparison.  She  had  no  intimate  girl 
friends,  and  Ivy's  full-blooded  affairs  struck  her  only 
with  the  grossness  of  their  quality,  giving  her  own  by 
contrast  a  refinement  and  poetry  that  made  it  doubly 
precious. 

Then  had  come  the  wonderland  of  those  harvest  days, 
when  hope  had  almost  passed  into  confidence,  when  all 
the  wonderful  things  of  love  she  had  never  learned  yet — 
glamour,  pride,  perfection,  satisfaction — had  shown  her 
their  burning  shapes.  But  it  had  all  been  false,  a  mirage 
of  that  same  hope's  sick  intensity,  an  overreaching  of 
the  artificer's  skill;  and  now  her  tears  had  turned  to 


218  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

mud  the  golden  dust  of  harvest,  and  all  her  dreams  were 
dead — and  stuck  to  her  still,  clogging  and  fouling,  like 
this  mud  of  Slivericks  Lane  on  her  boots. 

Luckily,  her  daylong  absence  made  it  possible  for  her 
to  hide  her  wretchedness  from  her  family.  At  school  her 
listlessness  was  commented  on — a  listlessness  alternating 
with  an  increased  nerviness  and  a  tendency  to  cry  when 
found  fault  with — but  as  Nell  had  always  been  a  little 
languid  and  a  little  hysterical,  these  exaggerations  of  her 
natural  state  were  put  down  to  her  health,  and  the  school- 
mistress persuaded  her  to  take  a  patent  medicine  con- 
taining iron.  Her  love  affair  had  been  conducted  on 
such  delicate  lines  that  only  a  few  had  noticed  it,  and 
no  one  except  Ivy  had  given  it  any  importance.  Ivy  was 
intensely  sorry  for  her  sister,  and  on  one  Sunday's  visit 
dared  to  probe  her  state.  But  Nell  was  like  a  poor  little 
cat  caught  by  the  tail,  and  could  only  scratch  and  spit, 
so  Ivy  good-naturedly  gave  up  the  effort.  She  was  quite 
her  old  self  again,  judging  by  the  "  pals  "  she  brought 
over  to  Worge  on  her  Sundays  off — Motorman  Hodder 
and  Motorman  Davis,  and  Sergeant  Staples,  and  Private 
La  Haye,  and  Corporal  Bunch  of  the  Moose  Jaws,  and 
other  Canadians  quartered  at  Hastings,  who  sat  in  the 
kitchen,  saying,  "  Sure  "  and  "  Yep  "  and  "  Nope." 

"  Reckon  it's  kill  or  cure  wud  you,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup, 
and  no  one  knew  precisely  what  she  meant. 

Nell  thought  her  worst  moment  would  be  when  she  de- 
livered to  Mr.  Poullett- Smith  the  pretty  little  speech  she 
had  been  making  up  ever  since  she  heard  of  his  engage- 
ment. It  was  fairly  bad,  for  Marian  Lamb  was  with  him 
and  had  already  assumed  a  galliard  air  of  proprietorship. 

"  Thank  you  so  much,  Miss  Beatup — it's  awfully  kind 
of  you.  Yes,  I'm  awfully  happy,  and  " — coyly — "  I  hope 
Harry  is  too.  But  we  mustn't  stop  any  more — Harry  has 
still  the  remains  of  his  cold.  Do  turn  up  your  collar,  you 
naughty  boy." 


NELL  219 

Nell  walked  away  rigid  with  contempt.  "  She's  silly 
and  she's  vulgar — she's  vulgarer  than  I,  for  all  I'm  only  a 
farmer's  daughter.  '  Naughty  boy ! ' — how  common ! 
She's  worse  than  Ivy." 

Miss  Marian  gave  up  her  Red  Cross  work,  and  was 
seen  going  for  long  walks  with  her  Harry,  and  accom- 
panying him  on  his  parish  rounds.  She  was  a  big,  un- 
gainly, soapily  clean  female,  with  a  certain  uncouth  girl-' 
ishness  which  did  not  endear  her  to  the  curate's  flock. 
Nell  could  not  imagine  what  he  "  saw  in  her  " — she  cer- 
tainly did  not  read  the  Sermons  of  St.  Gregory.  She 
wondered  if  he  had  loved  her  long — the  parish  said 
"  years,"  but  that  he  had  been  unable  to  propose  ( i )  till 
an  expected  legacy  arrived,  (2)  till  Miss  Marian  was  sure 
she  could  get  nobody  else.  At  all  events,  he  must  have 
been  in  love  with  her  during  those  days  of  Nell's  mirage — 
it  was  another  bitter  realisation  for  her  to  swallow,  an- 
other choking  mouthful  of  humble-pie. 

The  poor  little  teacher  crept  about  forlornly.  She  had 
not  officially  given  up  her  Sunday-school  class,  but  she 
seized  flimsy  pretexts  to  keep  away ;  she  even  sometimes 
stayed  away  from  church — then  would  force  herself  to 
go  thrice  of  a  Sunday,  in  case  her  absence  should  be  put 
down  to  its  true  cause.  She  dodged  the  curate  and 
Marian  in  the  lanes,  but  she  seemed  to  run  into  them  at 
every  corner — they  always  seemed  to  be  going  by  the 
schoolhouse  window.  One  evening,  as  she  passed  Mr. 
Smith's  cottage  by  the  church,  she  saw  the  firelight  leap- 
ing in  his  uncurtained  study,  and  two  dark  figures  stoop- 
ing together  against  the  glow.  She  stopped  and  stared  in, 
like  a  beggar  watching  a  feast ;  the  table  was  laid  for  tea, 
and  there  were  his  books  and  his  pictures,  all  ruddy  in 
the  firelight,  the  flickering,  shuttled  walls  of  the  little 
room  in  which  she  had  never  set  foot — his  home.  Marian 
was  there ;  she  would  pour  out  his  tea  and  hand  him  his 
cup.  She  would  say,  "  Eat  some  more,  dear ;  you've  had 


220  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

a  tiring  day."  Then  she  would  make  him  lie  back  in  his 
armchair  and  put  his  feet  to  the  fire,  and  she  would  curl 
up  at  his  feet  and  read  him  the  Sermons  of  St.  Gregory. 
.  .  .  No,  she  wouldn't  do  anything  like  this.  Nell 
laughed — that  woman  was  Nell,  not  Marian.  She  was 
putting  herself  where  she  wanted  to  be,  in  the  other's 
place.  Marian  would  say,  "  Don't  eat  all  the  cake, 
naughty  boy."  And  then  she  would  go  and  sit  on  his 
knee.  Ugh!  .  .  .  And  Nell,  who  would  have  done  so 
differently,  stood  outside  in  the  November  dusk,  with 
tears  and  rain  on  her  face,  and  little  cold,  red  hands 
clenched  in  impotent  longing. 


At  the  end  of  November  the  bells  rang  for  the  advance 
at  Cambrai — old  Dallington  tower  rocked  with  its  chimes, 
and  even  the  little  tin  clapper  at  Brownbread  Street 
tinkled  away  for  an  hour  or  more.  Mr.  Poullett-Smith 
and  his  organist  spent  half  a  dozen  evenings  trying  to 
make  a  dodging  choir  face  a  Solemn  Te  Deum  approved 
by  the  Gregorian  Society.  Unluckily,  the  singers  who 
would  have  easily  blustered  through  Stainer  in  F  or 
Martin  in  C,  grew  hang-dog  and  discouraged  in  the  knots 
of  Tones  and  Mediations,  so  that  by  the  time  the  Te 
Deum  was  ready,  Bourlon  Wood  had  been  evacuated  by 
the  British  and  the  victory  of  Cambrai  became  something 
perilously  near  a  fiasco.  Fortunately  the  capture  of  Jeru- 
salem soon  afterwards  saved  the  Te  Deum  from  being 
wasted. 

These  alternating  victories  and  disasters  were  very  bad 
for  Mus'  Beatup,  for  he  celebrated  them  all  in  the  same 
way  at  the  Rifle  Volunteer.  The  only  difference  was  that 
from  some  obscure  sport  of  habit  he  celebrated  a  victory 
in  gin  and  a  defeat  in  whisky.  He  was  very  bad  after 
both  aspects  of  Cambrai,  and  Jerusalem  brought  him  to 
ruin. 


NELL  221 

Soon  after  nine  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  back 
door,  rousing  all  the  Beatups  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
kitchen.  Nell  was  asleep  because  she  always  seemed  to 
be  tired  and  drowsy  now,  Mrs.  Beatup  was  asleep  be- 
cause she  reckoned  she  wouldn't  have  much  of  a  night 
with  Maaster,  Zacky  and  Harry  were  asleep  on  the  floor 
in  front  of  the  fire,  curled  up  together  like  puppies — 
Zacky  because  it  was  long  past  the  time  he  ought  to  have 
been  in  bed,  Harry  because  he  had  had  a  hard  day 
ploughing  the  clays.  There  was  great  confusion  and 
rubbing  of  eyes,  and  the  knock  was  repeated. 

"  Go  and  see  who  it  is,  Nell,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup. 
"  Harry,  I  dreamt  as  we  wur  being  bombed  by  Zepper- 
lians  like  the  folk  at  Pett." 

"  I  dreamt  of  naun — I'm  going  to  sleep  agaun." 

He  dropped  his  head  back  against  Zacky — and  just 
at  that  moment  Nell  reappeared  in  the  doorway,  with  a 
terrified  face. 

"  Mother — it's  father ;  he's  been  hurt.  ..." 

"  Hurt ! — you  mean  killed.  ..." 

"  I  don't — I  mean  hurt.  There's  a  man  with  him, 
helping  him  in." 

"I'm  a-going,"  and  Mrs.  Beatup  seized  the  lamp  and 
waddled  out,  followed  by  her  scared  and  sleepy  off- 
spring. 

In  the  passage  a  big  soldier  was  propping  up  a  Mus' 
Beatup  who  looked  as  if  he  was  stuffed  with  sawdust. 

"  He's  had  a  bit  of  a  fall,"  said  the  soldier  as  he 
staggered  under  his  burden.  "  I  was  seeing  him  home 
like,  and  he  slipped  in  the  yard." 

"  I  reckon  every  boan  in  his  body's  bruk,"  said  Mrs. 
Beatup — "  that's  how  he  looks,  surelye.  Let  him  sit 
down,  poor  soul." 

Mus'  Beatup  slid  through  the  soldier's  arms  to  a  sitting 
posture  on  the  floor.  Harry  pushed  forward  and  offered 
to  help  carry  him  into  the  kitchen. 


222  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Someone  ud  better  go  fur  a  doctor/'  said  the  escort. 
"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  him." 

Mrs.  Beatup  held  the  lamp  to  her  husband's  face,  and 
Harry  at  the  same  time  recognised  the  soldier  as  the 
eldest  Kadwell  from  Stilliands  Tower — not  he  who  had 
loved  and  ridden  away  from  Jen  Hollowbone,  but  an- 
other brother  in  the  Engineers.  Mus'  Beatup's  eyes  were 
open  and  dazed,  his  mouth  was  open  and  dribbling,  and 
his  limbs  were  dangling  forlornly.  When  they  tried 
to  pick  him  up,  they  found  that  his  right  leg  was 
broken. 

"  Zacky — run  up  to  Dallington  and  fetch  Dr.  Styles 
this  wunst,"  ordered  Harry.  "  Tell  him  it's  a  broken  leg 
— he'll  have  to  bring  summat  to  mend  it  with." 

Zacky  ran  off  agog,  and  Nell,  who  had  been  through 
a  first-aid  course  in  the  early  days  of  her  rivalry  with 
Marian  Lamb,  forced  herself  to  swallow  her  repulsion 
of  the  drunken,  stricken  figure  on  the  passage  floor,  and 
come  forward  with  advice. 

"  He  ought  to  be  put  to  bed  at  once  ...  he  might 
collapse." 

"  He's  collapsed,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup  in  the  indifferent 
voice  of  shock. 

"  But  he  must  be  kept  warm — I'll  heat  a  brick  in  the 
oven.  Harry,  you  and  Mr. " 

" — Kadwell,"  put  in  the  soldier,  with  a  bold  look  into 
Nell's  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Kadwell — please  carry  him  up  to  bed.  Can  you 
manage  him  up  the  stairs  ?  " 

"  Reckon  we'll  have  to,"  said  Harry.  "  Stand  clear, 
mother.  .  .  .  Got  his  shoulders,  Mus'  Kadwell? — I'll 
taake  his  legs." 

They  had  a  dead  weight  to  carry  to  the  upper  floor, 
but  Harry,  though  short,  was  a  strong,  stuggy  little  chap, 
and  Steve  Kadwell  was  enormous.  He  stood  four  inches 


NELL  223 

over  six  foot  and  was  proportionately  bullish  of  girth. 
He  was  a  handsome  man,  too — as  he  passed  Nell,  she 
noticed  his  brawny  neck  and  great  rolling  quiff  of  fair, 
curly  hair;  she  also  noticed  that  he  looked  at  her  in  a 
way  no  other  man  had  done.  The  lamplight  fell  becom- 
ingly on  her  pretty  scared  face,  and  suggested  with  soft 
orange  lights  and  melting  shadows  the  curves  of  her  little 
breast.  At  first  she  was  pleased  by  his  frank  admiration, 
then  something  in  it  made  her  feel  ashamed,  and  she 
drew  back  angrily  into  the  shadow. 


Nell  had  to  stop  away  from  school  till  the  end  of  the 
term,  for  Mrs.  Beatup  could  not  possibly  nurse  her  hus- 
band without  help;  indeed,  Nell's  help  was  often  not 
enough.  A  broken  leg  in  itself  was  serious  damage  for 
a  man  of  Mus'  Beatup's  age  and  habits,  and  into  the 
bargain  his  alcoholic  deprivations  brought  on  an  attack 
of  delirium  tremens  about  the  fifth  day  of  his  illness. 
For  this  both  Nell  and  her  mother  were  inadequate — 
Nell  was  sickened  and  terrified  by  this  horrible  travesty 
of  a  human  being  that  shook  the  springs  in  her  father's 
bed,  and  Mrs.  Beatup  made  him  worse  by  trying  to  argue 
with  him  and  taking  as  a  personal  affront  his  assertions 
as  to  the  maggoty  condition  of  the  pillows.  Harry  had  to 
spend  two  days  away  from  the  fields  in  the  combined 
office  of  nurse  and  policeman,  and  on  one  occasion  when 
even  his  strength  was  not  enough  to  keep  Mus'  Beatup  in 
bed,  Kadwell  of  Stilliands  Tower  prolonged  an  evening's 
call  of  enquiry  till  the  next  morning. 

Young  Kadwell  often  called  to  enquire,  and  made  him- 
self useful  in  various  ways.  He  was  on  a  fortnight's  sick- 
leave,  after  an  outbreak  of  his  old  wound.  He  had 
been  sniped  during  some  patrol  work  at  Loos  in  1915, 


224  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

and  though  once  more  fit  for  service  had  been  kept  in 
England  ever  since.  At  present  he  was  quartered  at 
Eastbourne,  but  expected  soon  to  be  sent  back  to 
France. 

At  first  Nell  was  too  harassed  and  miserable  to  realise 
that  his  visits  were  largely  on  her  account.  Moreover, 
she  was  sexually  very  humble — she  had  loved  so  long 
without  return  that  she  had  never  learned  to  look  for 
advances.  But  Kadwell  had  no  reason  to  hide  his  feel- 
ings, nor  any  skill  if  he  had  had  reason,  so  in  time  Nell 
was  bound  to  become  aware  of  them.  The  discovery  did 
not  give  her  any  great  pleasure — the  faint  pride  she  oc- 
casionally felt  at  his  notice  was  always  dangerously  on 
the  edge  of  disgust.  She  was  sensitive  throughout  her 
being  to  his  coarseness — which  at  the  same  time  had 
curious,  intermittent  powers  of  attraction — and  there  was 
something  in  his  bold,  appraising  look  which  struck  her 
with  shame ;  with  his  tastes,  thoughts  and  appetites  she 
had  nothing  in  common.  She  avoided  him  as  much  as 
she  could,  feeling  guilty  because  of  the  faint  thrills  which 
occasionally  mixed  with  her  dislike. 

It  was  a  sad  year's  ending.  Her  confinement  in  the 
house  dragged  down  even  further  her  health  and  spirits, 
her  father's  sick-bed  filled  her  with  wretchedness  and 
shame.  It  seemed  to  preach  to  her  the  lesson  of  what 
she  really  was,  in  spite  of  all  her  dreams.  How  had 
she  ever  dared  to  plot  for  the  greatness  of  the  curate's 
love?  Who  was  she  to  mate  with  a  priest,  a  scholar, 
a  gentleman?  The  sordid  grind  of  her  day,  shut  up 
in  the  muddle  of  Worge,  her  hours  in  that  sag-roofed, 
stuffy  bedroom,  nursing  her  father  through  the  triviali- 
ties and  degradations  of  an  illness  brought  on  and  intensi- 
fied by  drink — and  then  the  crowning  irony  of  an 
occasional  "  parish  visit "  from  her  loved  one,  his  polite 
enquiries,  his  parsonic  sympathy — all  seemed  to  shout  at 


NELL  225 

ner  that  she  was  nothing  but  a  common  girl,  not  only  of 
humble  but  of  shameful  heritage,  an  obscure,  half-edu- 
cated nobody,  who  was  now  bearing  the  punishment  of 
her  presumptuous  hopes. 

She  gave  up  her  Sunday-school  class,  making  her 
father's  illness  an  excuse ;  she  also  gave  up  going  to 
church.  This  was  partly  due  to  lack  of  time,  partly  to 
a  dread  of  the  empty  shell.  She  told  herself  bitterly 
that  her  religion  had  never  been  real — it  had  only  been 
part  of  the  mirage — she  might  as  well  give  up  the  pre- 
tence of  it.  Besides,  she  could  not  bear  to  look  any  more 
on  the  background  of  her  vanished  dreams,  the  soft 
colours  and  lights  against  which  they  had  glowed,  to  hear 
the  sighing  tones  which  had  set  them  to  music  in  her  heart. 

One  Sunday  evening,  when  she  had  gone  out  to  stretch 
her  cramped  legs,  she  heard  the  sound  of  singing  come 
from  the  Bethel.  She  had  never  been  inside  except  for 
Tom's  marriage,  but  now  in  a  sudden  softening  of  her 
heart  she  thought  she  would  go  in.  She  opened  the  door, 
and  slid  into  an  empty  pew — of  which  there  was  a  big 
choice.  Mr.  Sumption  stood  swaying  and  beating  time 
in  the  pulpit,  while  before  him  his  mean  congregation  of 
Bourners  and  Hubbies  sang — 

"  Let  Christian  faith  and  hope  dispel 
The  signs  of  guilt  and  woe  "... 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  smell  of  lamp  oil  and 
Sunday  clothes  and  the  rot  of  the  plaster  walls.  Nell 
sat,  a  little  timid,  in  the  corner  of  her  pew.  The  scene 
was  strange  and  grotesque  to  her,  yet  rather  kindly. 
She  thought  Mr.  Sumption  looked  ill  and  worn.  She 
was  shocked  at  his  haggard  smile,  at  the  unhealthy 
smouldering  of  his  eyes.  .  .  .  All  Sunday  Street  knew 
that  he  was  in  trouble  again  about  Jerry,  who  had  not 
written  for  two  months;  but  the  village  had  come  to 


226  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

look  upon  it  as  Mr.  Sumption's  natural  state  to  be  in 
trouble  about  his  son,  and  Nell  felt  there  must  be  some- 
thing worse  than  usual  to  account  for  his  altered  looks. 
Her  own  sadness  made  her  soft  and  gentle  towards  him, 
and  she  watched  him  with  pitying  eyes. 

The  service  ended,  and  Mr.  Sumption  came  down  to 
the  chapel  door,  where  he  waited  to  shake  hands  with 
his  departing  congregation.  Nell,  with  her  ignorance  of 
chapel  ritual,  had  not  expected  this,  and  was  a  little 
flustered  by  it.  Now  he  must  inevitably  know  of  her 
presence,  which  she  had  not  meant.  But  there  was  no 
help  for  it,  so  she  held  out  her  hand  in  her  gentle,  well- 
bred  manner  as  she  passed  him  in  the  doorway.  He  gave 
a  start  of  surprise. 

"  I  never  expected  to  see  you  here,"  he  said. 

"  I  was  passing  .  .  .  and  I  thought  the  music  sounded 
pretty  .  .  .  so  I  came  in,"  faltered  Nell. 

"  Yes — the  music's  pretty,"  he  said  absently,  and  she 
thought  his  voice  sounded  hoarse  as  if  from  a  recent  cold. 
Then  her  eyes  met  his,  and  each  seemed  to  read  the 
other's  pain.  Drawn  together  by  a  mystic  community  of 
suffering,  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence,  still  holding 
hands.  She  felt  his  grip  tighten  on  hers,  and  her  throat 
suddenly  swelled  with  tears.  They  blinded  her  as  she 
went  out  into  the  dusk. 


Shortly  before  Christmas  Mrs.  Beatup  decided  that 
Steve  Kadwell  had  "  intentions."  He  was  now  back  at 
Eastbourne,  but  came  over  to  Worge  every  Sunday,  and 
after  little  more  than  half  an  hour  beside  a  crushed  and 
plaintive  Mus'  Beatup  would  sit  in  the  kitchen  till  it  was 
time  to  go  home. 

"  Never  shows  the  end  of  his  nose  to  'em  at  Stilliands 
Tower,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  Reckon  thur's  someone 
here  he  liks  better." 


NELL  227 

"  Do  you  mean  me  ?  "  asked  Nell  wearily. 

"  Well,  I  doan't  mean  me — and  I  doan't  mean  that 
trug-faaced  lump  of  an  Ellen,  so  I  reckon  it's  you.  You 
needn't  look  so  black  at  me,  Nell — thur's  no  harm  in  a 
maid  getting  wed.  I'd  bin  wed  a  year  at  your  age, 
surelye,  and  three  month  gone  wud  my  fust  child — the 
one  that  never  opened  his  eyes  on  day." 

"  Did  father  always  drink?  " 

"  Always  a  bit  more  or  less — naun  very  lamentable 
— just  here  a  little  and  there  a  little,  as  the  Bible  says. 
He's  got  wuss  this  last  few  year.  It's  that  hemmed  war." 

"  You  and  father  aren't  a  very  good  advertisement  for 
marriage." 

Mrs.  Beatup  was  huffed. 

"  I  dunno  wot  you  want — here  we  are  three  years 
past  our  silver  wedding,  and  five  strong  children  still 
alive.  It  aun't  the  fault  of  his  marriage  he's  bruk  his 
leg — he  might  have  done  it  single,  and  you  cud  say  the 
saum  of  his  drinking  too." 

Further  argument  was  prevented  by  the  arrival  of 
Steve  Kadwell  on  his  Sunday  visit.  Nell,  who  had  been 
a  little  excited  by  her  mother's  remarks,  received  him 
with  more  friendliness  than  usual.  Certainly  he  was  a 
very  personable  man — better-looking  even  than  Ivy's  Cor- 
poral Seagrim,  and  younger.  The  grip  of  his  huge  hand 
gave  her  an  extraordinary  sense  of  well-being  and  self- 
confidence,  and  the  flush  which  always  came  while  his 
eyes  appraised  her  was  this  time  half  pleasurable.  She 
fidgeted  a  good  deal  while  he  was  upstairs. 

His  conversational  powers  were  not  great,  and  she  suf- 
fered a  reaction  of  boredom  during  tea,  which  she  and 
her  mother  had  ready  for  him  when  he  came  down.  He 
ate  enormously  and  not  very  elegantly,  though  he  was 
not  entirely  a  bumpkin — for  he  had  spent  an  occasional 
leave  in  London,  "  having  a  good  time,"  he  told  her  with 
a  wink.  He  talked  a  good  deal  about  himself  and  various 


228  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

men  in  his  platoon,  whose  dull  doings  and  sayings  he 
related  in  detail.  Nell  lost  her  new  friendliness,  and  as 
soon  as  tea  was  over  went  out  to  feed  the  chickens  and 
shut  them  up  for  the  night. 

She  went  into  the  barn  to  mix  the  feed.  The  sun  had 
just  set  and  there  was  a  reddish  dusk,  through  which 
she  groped  for  the  binns.  She  was  kneading  a  paste 
with  middlings,  bran  and  barley-meal,  when  she  heard 
a  footstep  on  the  frosty  stones  of  the  yard,  and  the 
next  minute  the  barn  grew  quite  dark  as  a  man  blocked 
the  doorway. 

"  Your  mother  said  I  cud  come  and  help  you." 

Nell  felt  somehow  a  little  frightened. 

"  I'm  all  right." 

"  Reckon  you  are  " — he  came  into  the  barn.  "  You're 
fine,"  and  he  stooped  down  to  her,  she  felt  his  breath 
fanning  her  neck.  Her  hands  ceased  to  move  in  the  paste, 
and  suddenly  she  began  to  tremble. 

She  tried  to  save  herself  with  a  small,  faltering 
remark  about  the  chicken-food — "  Reckon  soon  we'll  have 
to  do  without  the  meal." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  stooped  closer  still,  so  that 
she  could  smell  him,  his  virile  smell  of  hair  and  leather 
and  tobacco.  Then  she  suddenly  snatched  her  hands 
out  of  the  trug,  all  clogged  and  sticky  with  paste  and 
meal,  and  tried  to  push  him  away. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't.  ..." 

"  Nellie — you're  not  afraid  of  me?" 

"  Please  let  me  go  " — for  his  arms  were  round  her 
now. 

"  Not  now  I've  got  you,  little  kid.  .  .  .  I'm  just- 
about  going  to  keep  you  till  I  know  what  you're  made 
of." 

He  laughed,  and  her  struggling  passed  suddenly  into 
weakness. 


NELL  229 

Then  his  mouth  pressed  down  on  hers,  and  Nell,  who 
had  till  that  moment  known  nothing  but  the  bodiless 
spirit  of  love,  suddenly  met  him  in  the  power  of  his  fierce 
body.  The  contact  seemed  to  break  her.  She  lay  back 
helpless  in  Kadwell's  arms,  unable  to  stir  or  resist  till 
he  let  her  go,  and  he  did  not  let  her  go  till  he  seemed  to 
have  drawn  all  the  life  out  of  her  in  a  long  kiss — all  the 
hoard  of  fire  and  sweetness  which  she  had  kept  long 
years  for  another  man  he  drew  out  of  her  with  his  lips 
and  took  for  his  own. 

Then  he  released  her,  and  she  fell  back  against  the 
binns,  gasping  a  little,  and  crying,  while  her  eyes  strained 
to  him  through  the  dusk.  She  seemed  unable  to  move, 
and  he  pointed  to  the  bowl  of  chicken-food  on  the  floor, 
saying,  "  Pick  up  that  trug  and  come  out." 

She  did  as  he  told  her,  and  went  out  meekly  at  his 
heels. 


Kadwell  looked  on  Nell  as  a  conquered  kingdom.  She 
herself  was  not  so  sure,  for  after  he  had  gone  home  that 
night,  her  flagging  powers  revived,  and  she  had  a  week 
in  which  to  recruit  her  forces.  During  that  week  she 
passed  through  moments  of  sick  revulsion  from  him,  in 
which  his  strength  and  roughness  disgusted  her.  But 
when  he  came  again,  she  found  herself  powerless  as  she 
had  been  before. 

He  had  strong  allies.  Nell  was  lonely,  friendless, 
humbled  to  the  dust ;  she  was  at  the  same  time  reacting 
from  her  former  intellectual  and  ecclesiastical  influences. 
His  love  helped  restore  her  self-respect  and  his  out- 
stretched arms  were  rightly  placed  to  catch  her  as  the 
pendulum  swung  her  away  from  her  old  tastes  and 
glories.  Nell  found  herself  for  the  first  time  the  inter- 
esting member  of  the  family — at  least  in  her  mother's 


230  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

eyes.  She  was  the  courted,  the  beloved — even  if  hand 
in  hand  with  love  came  strange  tyrannies — and  her  sud- 
den change  to  exaltation  from  degradation  turned  her 
head  a  little. 

Sometimes  there  were  hours  when  she  saw  clearly, 
saw  that  Kadwell  was  impossible  as  her  mate,  that  they 
had  nothing  in  common,  that  not  even  his  passion  was 
really  acceptable  to  her.  .  .  .  He  was  a  coarse  brute, 
who  would  always  trample  on  her  tastes  and  wishes  and 
ignore  her  mind  and  soul — and  in  these  hours  she  knew 
that  it  was  her  mind  and  soul  which  counted  most,  in 
spite  of  the  newly-awakened  body.  She  was  not  really 
of  a  passionate  nature,  only  a  little  drugged.  She  was 
doping  herself  with  Steve  so  that  she  might  forget  the 
anguish  and  humiliation  of  the  past  autumn. 

But  this  clearness  did  not  last  long,  and  it  was  always 
fogged  in  the  same  way — by  a  sense  of  her  own  un- 
worthiness.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  wicked  to 
despise  Steve,  who  was  much  better  than  she  in  his 
different  way.  He  might  be  uneducated,  coarse,  and 
self-willed,  but  he  was  strong  and  brave  and  resolute, 
all  the  things  that  she  was  not — "  And  I  say  unto  you, 
despise  not  one  of  these  little  ones,  for  their  angels  do 
always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in 
heaven."  .  .  . 

Then  she  would  remember  his  wound,  which  he  had 
got  fighting  for  her  and  England  over  at  Loos,  and  in 
the  depths  of  that  self-contempt  which  was  so  often  with 
her  now,  alternating  with  her  moods  of  self-confidence, 
she  acknowledged  that  she  had  done  nothing  for  the  War. 
.Though  she  had  always  prided  herself  on  being  more 
patriotic  than  the  rest  of  her  family,  she  had  done  far 
less  than  they — less  than  Tom,  who  had  gone  to  fight, 
even  if  ignorant  and  unwilling ;  less  than  Harry,  who  had 
boldly  flung  down  his  challenge  to  the  earth  and  taken  up 


NELL  231 

arms  against  her  for  his  country's  sake ;  less  than  Ivy, 
who  was  cheerfully  and  competently  filling  a  man's  place 
and  doing  a  man's  work ;  less  than  her  mother,  who  had 
borne  these  children  for  her  country's  need;  less  even 
than  her  father,  who  paid  rates  and  taxes  and  cultivated 
the  ground.  The  fact  that  they  were  all,  except  perhaps 
Harry,  more  or  less  unconscious  of  their  service,  only 
made  her  reproach  greater.  She  of  her  knowledge  had 
done  nothing,  and  they  of  their  ignorance  had  done  much. 
Who  was  she  to  despise  them  or  Kadwell?  Should  she 
not  take  this  chance  to  do  the  little  she  could  by  bring- 
ing comfort  and  happiness  into  a  soldier's  life?  She 
knew  all  the  difference  that  Thyrza  had  made  to  Tom 
— let  her  do  the  same  for  Steve,  humbly,  simply,  con- 
scious of  her  failure  up  till  now. 

Early  in  the  New  Year  Bill  Putland  suddenly  came 
home  on  leave,  and  still  more  suddenly  married  a  be- 
wildered and  delighted  Polly  Sinden.  They  had  not  even 
been  definitely  engaged ;  she  had  not  known  he  was  com- 
ing home  till  she  got  his  telegram,  fixing  not  only  the  date 
of  his  arrival  but  the  date  of  the  wedding.  They  were 
married  at  Brownbread  Street,  by  an  elderly  clergyman 
who  was  taking  the  curate's  place  during  his  honeymoon 
— Mr.  Poullett-Smith  had  been  married  up  at  Dallington, 
and  the  joyful  clash  of  his  wedding  chimes  came  to  Nell 
as  she  sat  with  Steve  in  the  sun-slatted  murk  of  the  Dutch 
barn,  and  made  her  more  than  usually  submissive  to  his 
caresses. 

Ivy,  delighted  at  her  friend's  good  luck,  forgave  a  long 
coldness,  and  came  to  Polly's  marriage.  '  She  brought 
with  her  Sergeant  Staples,  and  after  the  ceremony  took 
him  to  Worge  for  tea. 

Mrs.  Beatup  had  not  been  to  the  wedding,  for  Thyrza's 
illness  had  begun,  and  her  mother-in-law  had  spent  most 
of  the  afternoon  down  at  the  Shop. 


232  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Oh,  she's  doing  valiant,"  she  said  in  answer  to  their 
enquiries,  "  but  'tis  unaccountable  hard  on  a  girl  to  be 
wudout  her  husband  at  such  a  time.  ..." 

"  Where's  Nell?  "  asked  Ivy. 

"  Up  wud  her  father,  surelye.  He's  bin  easier  to-day, 
but  he's  a  tedious  cross  oald  man  these  times.  You'd 
never  think  the  pacerfist  and  objections  conscience  he's 
got  lying  in  bed  and  reading  the  paapers  and  wanting 
things  to  eat  and  drink  as  he  can't  git — reckon  he'd  stop 
the  War  to-morrow  for  a  bit  of  cheese." 

"  Kadwell  bin  here  any  more?  " 

"  Reckon  he  never  misses — it'll  be  Nell's  turn  next  after 
Polly.  You'd  best  maake  haste,  Ivy  Beatup,  or  at  the 
raate  we're  going,  you'll  be  the  only  oald  maid  left  in 
the  parish." 

"  Ha!  ha!  "  laughed  Ivy,  with  her  mouth  full  of  bread. 

"  But  Nell  ull  be  a  fool  if  she  marries  him,"  she  added 
seriously.  "  He  aun't  her  kind.  I  know  him,  and  he's 
a  bit  of  a  swine,  I  reckon." 

"  Reckon  he's  a  valiant,  stout  chap,  and  Nell  ull  be 
a  fool  if  she  says  no." 

Ivy  did  not  argue  the  matter,  but  before  she  went 
away  she  made  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  her  sister 
alone. 

"  Nell,  you  haven't  promised  Steve  Kadwell  ?  " 

Nell  did  not  answer  for  a  moment — she  looked  dazed. 
Then  she  said  slowly : 

"  Yes — I  promised  him  on  Sunday." 

"  Then  write  and  tell  him  you've  changed  your  mind." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you're  a  fool.  You  know  quite  well  he  aun't 
the  chap  for  you — you,  wud  all  your  liddle  dentical 
ways !  " 

The  tears  came  into  Nell's  eyes. 

"  I  love  him." 


NELL  233 

Ivy  stared  critically  at  her.  She  seemed  to  have 
altered. 

"  Have  you  told  mother  ?  " 

"No." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  I  dunno — we  haven't  talked  about  it  yet." 

"  Well,  doan't  be  in  a  hurry — give  him  a  good  think 
over." 

She  had  no  time  to  say  more,  and  realised  that  there 
was  not  much  more  to  be  said.  Nell  seemed  dazed  and 
foolish,  like  a  pilgrim  lost  in  a  strange  land. 


Sunday  Street  was  dazzled  by  its  multitude  of  mar- 
riages. There  had  been  Tom  Beatup's,  not  a  year  ago, 
then  the  curate's,  and  Polly  Sinden's,  on  the  top  of  each 
other  in  January,  and  now,  in  February,  Nell  Beatup's. 
The  last  was  a  surprise ;  who  would  have  thought,  asked 
the  village,  that  Nell  would  be  married  before  Ivy  ?  One 
or  two  mothers  improved  their  daughters'  minds  with  the 
moral  of  demure,  gentle  Nell's  marrying  before  her  sister 
with  her  loud,  friendly  ways.  There  was  some  jealousy, 
too,  for  Kadwell,  heir  of  Stilliands  Tower,  was  considered 
a  good  match,  though  a  certain  amount  of  suspicion  at- 
tached locally  to  his  morals,  due  to  his  having  once  spent 
a  leave  in  Paris. 

Nell's  wedding  was  a  shorn  affair.  Her  father  was, 
of  course,  unable  to  come  and  give  her  away,  and  she 
had  to  go  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  a  shuffling  and 
miserable  Harry,  to  be  finally  disposed  of  by  Mrs.  Beatup, 
who  was  full  of  doubts  as  to  the  legality  of  a  marriage 
thus  officiated.  Ivy  could  not  get  another  day  off,  so  had 
been  obliged  to  content  herself  with  sending  Nell  a  silver- 
plated  cruet  and  a  rather  tactless  message  to  "  come  to 


234  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

her  if  ever  she  felt  things  going  a  bit  wrong."  Thyrza 
was  not  present,  either.  She  had  mended  slowly,  in  spite 
of  the  joy  of  her  little  son,  and  felt  unequal  to  the  fag 
and  excitement  of  a  wedding,  either  socially  or  ecclesiasti- 
cally. The  gaps  were  completed  by  the  absence  of  Mr. 
Poullett-Smith,  who  was  still  away  on  his  honeymoon. 
He  was  expected  back  next  week,  and  it  was  considered 
locally  that  Nell  and  Kadwell  would  have  shown  a  more 
becoming  spirit  if  they  had  waited  for  his  ministrations. 
No  one  guessed  that  it  was  just  this  chance  of  being 
married  in  the  curate's  absence  which  had  finally  dropped 
the  balance,  and  made  Nell  give  way  to  her  lover's  en- 
treaties and  make  him  happy  at  once. 

After  the  ceremony  there  was  a  breakfast  at  Worge, 
and  that  too  was  shorn.  There  had  been  no  Ivy  to  help 
Mrs.  Beatup  with  the  cooking,  and  trug-faced  Ellen  had 
burnt  the  cake,  which  was  not  only  sugarless,  as  Tom's 
had  been,  but  without  peel  or  plums.  "  Might  as  well  eat 
bread  and  call  it  caake,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup  drearily. 
"  They  both  taaste  lik  calf-meal." 

There  was  no  butter,  as  butter  did  not  pay  at  its 
present  price,  and  was  no  longer  made  at  Worge.  Some 
greenish  margarine  had  been  Ellen's  reward  for  standing 
two  hours  outside  the  grocer's  in  Senlac,  but  the  cake 
had  swallowed  it  all  up,  and  wanted  more,  judging  by  its 
splintering  behaviour  under  the  teeth.  To  balance  these 
scarcities  there  was  tinned  salmon  and  tinned  crab  and 
tinned  lobster — also  two  bottles  of  wine,  left  over  from 
Tom's  wedding,  and  watered  to  make  them  go  further. 

"  This  is  wot  you  might  call  a  War  wedding,"  said 
Mrs.  Beatup.  "  Nell,  I'm  unaccountable  glad  you  got 
married  in  church — if  it  had  bin  a  chapel  marriage  on 
the  top  of  this  " — and  she  waved  her  hand  over  the  table 
— "  I'd  never  quite  feel  as  you  wur  praaperly  wed." 

As  a  further  counterblast  to  irregularity  she  had  in- 


NELL  235 

sisted  on  Nell's  being  married  in  white  satin,  with  a  stiff 
white  veil  like  a  meat-safe  bound  over  her  hair  with  a 
wreath  of  artificial  orange-blossom.  She  looked  very 
pretty,  with  a  becoming  flush  in  the  thick  pallor  of  her 
skin.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and  restless,  and  she  breathed 
quickly,  so  that  her  little  pearl-and-turquoise  locket,  "  the 
gift  of  the  bridegroom,"  heaved  under  her  transparencies 
— she  was  too  shrinking  and  modest  to  have  her  gown  cut 
low — like  a  shallop  on  a  wave.  She  scarcely  spoke  during 
the  meal,  but  sat  twisting  her  wedding-ring  and  staring  at 
her  husband — following  each  movement  with  her  eyes, 
apparently  unable  to  look  away  from  him. 

The  meal  was  not  lively ;  it  lacked  Ivy's  good-humour, 
Mus'  Beatup's  talkativeness,  Bill  Putland's  wit,  Mr. 
Sumption's  big  laugh  and  childish  enjoyment  of  his  food. 
The  party  consisted  only  of  the  two  families — Beatups 
and  Kadwells.  Old  Mus'  Kadwell  droned  about  the 
War,  and  the  "  drore  "  in  which  he  prophesied  it  would 
end,  Mrs.  Kadwell  compared  with  Mrs.  Beatup  a  day's 
adventures  in  search  of  meat,  Lizzie  Kadwell  tried  to 
flirt  with  Harry,  who  was  overwhelmed  with  shame  and 
annoyance  at  her  efforts,  and  Sim  Kadwell,  who  had  been 
best  man,  gave  wearying  details  of  the  Indispensable's 
Progress  from  tribunal  to  tribunal. 

Steve  Kadwell  could  get  only  a  week-end's  leave,  so 
the  honeymoon  would  be  short,  and  afterwards  Nell 
would  came  back  to  Worge,  and  live  there  as  before, 
except  for  her  "  teachering,"  which  her  husband  had 
made  her  give  up,  so  that  she  might  be  at  hand  when 
he  wanted  her,  free  to  go  with  him  on  any  unexpected 
leave.  He  would  have  longer  leave  given  him  soon,  he 
promised  her,  and  they  would  go  to  London  and  have 
a  valiant  time.  On  this  occasion  they  were  going  no 
further  that  Brighton,  but  they  would  stay  at  a  fine  hotel 
and  have  late  dinner  and  a  fire  in  their  bedroom. 


236  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Nell  drove  away  with  her  hand  limp  and  rather  cold 
in  Kadwell's  big  fondling  clasp.  The  pale  February  sun 
slanted  to  Worge's  roof  from  the  west,  and  a  clammy, 
mould-flavoured  mist  hung  over  the  hedges,  like  the 
winter  ghost  of  those  fogs  which  had  webbed  the  farm 
with  dusty  gold  in  harvest-time.  Nell  looked  back  at 
the  old  house  and  the  fields  behind  it — since  she  was 
leaving  home  only  for  two  days,  it  was  queer  to  feel 
that  she  was  leaving  it  for  ever. 


It  was  raining  and  foggy  when  she  came  back.  Thick 
white  muffles  of  cloud  drifted  up  the  fields,  and  hung 
between  the  hedges,  catching  and  choking  all  sound.  Rain 
fell  noiselessly,  almost  invisibly,  apparent  only  in  an 
occasional  whorl,  in  the  dripping  eaves  of  the  stacks,  the 
shining  roofs  of  the  barns,  and  the  whiteness  of  the 
beaded  grass.  Nell  came  from  Hailsham  station  in  a 
cab — her  husband  had  told  her  to  do  so,  giving  her  paper 
money  for  the  fare.  He  certainly  was  princely  in  his 
ideas  of  spending,  and  there  were  loud  and  envious  ex- 
clamations at  Worge  when,  instead  of  the  soaked  and 
huddled  figure  expected,  Nell  appeared  bone-dry,  with- 
out even  her  umbrella  unfurled. 

"  A  cab  from  Hailsham ! "  cried  Mrs.  Beatup. 
"  Reckon  you've  got  a  good  husband." 

"  And  did  you  have  the  fire  in  your  bedroom  ?  "  asked 
Zacky. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nell.    "  A  shilling  every  night." 

She  kissed  her  mother  and  brothers,  and  Ivy,  who 
was  over  for  the  day  and  now  came  out  of  the  kitchen, 
with  a  bear's  hug  for  her  sister. 

"  You've  got  a  new  hat !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes ;  Steve  saw  it  in  a  shop  in  Brighton  and  bought 
it  for  me." 


NELL  237 

"  Lork !  "  cried  Mrs.  Beatup. 

"  But  it  aun't  your  usual  style,"  said  Ivy ;  "  you  most- 
ways  wear  'em  more  quiet-like.  I've  seen  many  of  that 
sort  of  hat  come  on  the  tram,  and  it's  generally  what  the 
boys  call  a  tart." 

Nell  flushed  and  looked  away. 

"  We've  got  Thyrza  here,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup.  "  She 
came  up  this  morning  afore  the  rain  started,  and  we're 
kipping  her  till  it's  a  done — fust  time  she's  bin  out,  and 
I'm  justabout  fritted  lest  she  taakes  cold." 

"  Has  she  got  the  baby  with  her?  " 

"  Surelye.  .  .  .  Here's  Nell,  Thyrza,  come  up  in  a  cab 
from  the  station,  and  her  husband's  guv  her  a  new  hat." 

Thyrza's  eyes  opened  big  in  wonder.  She  sat  by  the 
fire,  with  her  child  in  her  arms ;  she  was  pale,  but  seemed 
plump  and  healthy,  and  her  eyes  had  an  eager,  yearning 
look  which  was  new  to  them.  Nell  kissed  her  and  the 
baby,  and  sat  down  by  the  hearth  with  a  little  shiver. 

"  I'll  git  you  some  hot  tea  in  a  minnut,"  said  her 
mother,  "  and  then  I'll  tell  you  a  surprise  about 
Ivy." 

"  Adone  do,  mother — you've  half  toald  her  now." 

"  I  haven't — I  only  said  it  wur  a  surprise,  which  I 
reckon  it  aun't  much  of,  since  you've  near  married  three 
men  in  the  last  twelvemonth." 

Ivy  groaned — "  Reckon  your  tongue's  lik  a  bruk 
wurzel-cutter — slipping  all  over  the  plaace.  Well,  Nell, 
you  know  it  now — but  guess  who  he  is." 

This  was  more  difficult,  as  there  were  at  least  half  a 
dozen  possible  claimants,  and  Nell  restored  the  secret 
to  a  little  of  its  lost  glory  by  guessing  wrong  several 
times. 

"  It's  Eric  Staples,"  said  Ivy  at  last,  "  and  we're  going 
out  to  Canada  soon  as  ever  he  gits  his  discharge,  which 
woan't  be  long  now.  He  wur  wounded  and  gassed  at 


238  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Vimy,  but  he's  a  stout  feller  still,  and  has  got  a  liddle 
farm  in  Saskatchewan  wot  me  and  him  ull  kip  the  two 
of  us.  He  says  I'm  the  woman  born  for  a  colonial's 
wife." 

"  Reckon  you  are,"  said  her  mother  fondly,  "  but  I  wish 
you  cud  have  got  a  husband  wot  took  you  to  hotels  and 
guv  you  cab-rides  and  fine  hats  like  Nell." 

"  I  aun't  the  girl  fur  hotels  and  cabs — reckon  I'm  only 
the  girl  for  washing  the  pots  and  scrubbing  the  floor,  and 
lucky  that's  the  girl  Eric  wants.  I'd  never  do  wud 
Nell's  life — she's  a  lady  ..."  and  she  squeezed  her 
sister's  hand. 

Nell  gave  a  faint  squeeze  in  response.  She  was 
touched  by  Ivy's  affection,  at  the  same  time  it  made  her 
feel  a  little  cold,  for  she  guessed  the  reason ;  Ivy  was* 
only  saying  without  words,  "  I'm  standing  by  you,  Nell 
— you've  done  a  stupid  thing,  and  nobody  knows  it  but 
you  and  I.  Howsumdever  you  can  always  come  wud  any 
trouble  to  old  Ivy." 

Tea  was  now  on  the  table,  with  the  remains  of  the 
wedding-cake.  Mus'  Beatup  was  asleep  upstairs,  so  it 
was  arranged  that  later  on  Nell  should  take  him  up  his 
tea  and  pay  him  her  dutiful  greetings.  Harry  and  Zacky 
came  in  very  grubby  after  handling  roots.  Harry  was 
now  a  pitiless  tyrant  who  drove  and  slaved  his  brother 
out  of  school  hours,  making  him  dig  and  rake  and  cart 
and  dung;  for  the  unthinkable  thing  of  a  year  ago  had 
happened,  and  the  War  was  dragging  on  towards  Harry's 
eighteenth  birthday,  threatening  to  move  his  battle  front  r 
from  the  furrows  and  ditches  of  Sussex  to  the  blasted 
fields  of  France. 

Thyrza  had  a  letter  from  Tom,  which  she  read  to  the 
company,  every  now  and  then  stopping  to  hum  over  some 
passage  which  for  obviously  pleasant  reasons  could  not 
be  read  out  loud. 


NELL  239 

"  To  think  he's  never  seen  his  baby,"  she  murmured, 
bending  towards  her  crooked  arm. 

"  To  think  of  Tom  ever  having  a  baby  to  see,"  said 
Mrs.  Beatup — "  and  you'd  know  he  wur  Tom's  by  his 
flat  nose." 

"  Wot  have  you  settled  to  call  him  ?  "  asked  Ivy.  "  Is 
it  still  Thomas  Edward?  " 

"  No,  it's  to  be  Thomas  William,  fur  Bill  Putland  has 
promised  to  stand  godfather." 

"  I  doan't  lik  William  as  much  as  Edward.  Wot 
maade  you  change,  Thyrza?  " 

"  Tom  wants  him  called  after  his  best  pal,  surelye." 

"  And  after  the  Kayser,  too — William's  the  Kayser's 
naum." 

Thyrza  looked  shocked. 

"  You'll  have  to  call  him  Bill  fur  short." 

"  That  ud  sound  more  like  the  Kayser  than  ever — I 
always  call  the  Kayser  Bill." 

"  Then  call  him  Willie." 

"  That's  the  young  Kayser,  and  Tom  when  he  fixed 
William  said  as  he  must  never  shorten  it  to  Willie,  'cos 
there's  a  kind  of  shell  called  Little  Willie,  and  he  says  as 
if,  when  peace  comes  and  he  gits  hoame,  fulks  wur  to 
say,  '  Here  comes  Little  Willie,'  he'd  chuck  himself  down 
in  the  lane  and  start  digging  himself  in — Ha!  ha!  "  and 
Thyrza  laughed  at  the  joke,  and  tickled  the  baby  to  make 
it  laugh  too,  which  it  didn't. 

"  Reckon  he's  too  young  to  laugh,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup. 

"  He  aun't  too  young  to  cry." 

"  We're  none  of  us  too  young  fur  that,  nor  too  oald, 
nuther." 

Thyrza  sighed  gently — 

"  I'm  unaccountable  set  on  Tom's  coming  fur  the 
christening — and  Passon's  been  wanting  to  christen  him ; 
he  asked  me  at  the  churching.  I  thought  maybe  Tom  cud 


240  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

git  leave  to  see  his  baby  christened,  but  seemingly  he 
can't." 

"  They're  unaccountable  short  wud  leave,"  said  Mrs. 
Beatup.  "  Steve  couldn't  git  more'n  three  days  to  git 
married  in." 

"  But  reckon  he'll  git  some  more  later,  woan't  he, 
Nell?" 

Nell  started — during  the  little  womanly  talk  her  mind 
had  gone  off  on  questionings  of  its  own. 

"Leave?  Yes.  He's  sure  to  get  a  week  before  he 
goes  out  to  France." 

"  You're  unaccountable  lucky.  Reckon  he'll  taake  you 
to  another  hotel  and  buy  you  another  hat." 

"  And  send  you  home  in  another  cab." 

"  I'll  go  up  and  have  a  look  at  father,"  said  Nell. 

There  was  silence  in  the  kitchen  for  a  little  while  after 
she  went.  Harry  and  Zacky  had  gone  back  to  their 
digging,  and  Ivy  and  Mrs.  Beatup  sat  squatting  against 
Thyrza's  lap,  where  the  baby  lay  more  helpless  than  a 
day-old  kitten. 

"  Nell's  middling  quiet,"  said  her  mother  at  last. 

"  She's  sad  at  having  said  good-bye  to  Steve,"  sighed 
Thyrza. 

"  I  doan't  waonder  as  she's  vrothered,"  said  Mrs. 
Beatup.  "  Courted,  cried,  and  married,  all  in  a  huddle 
lik  that.  Ivy,  I  hope  as  this  ull  be  a  lesson  to  you,  and 
you'll  bide  your  banns  praaperly  and  buy  your  bits  of 
things  in  more'n  one  day's  shopping.  Pore  Nell,  she  sims 
all  swummy  and  of  a  daze,  and  I  doan't  woander,  nuther, 
wud  all  the  hurriment  thur's  bin.  Reckon  she  scarce 
knows  yit  if  she's  maid  or  wife." 

"  Reckon  she  does,"  said  Ivy. 


PART  VI :       BABY 


TOM  did  not  come  home  till  March,  and  the  baby 
had  been  christened  before  he  arrived,  Thyrza  hav- 
ing proved  too  soft  to  resist  ecclesiastical  pressure. 
But  her  husband  was  not  so  disappointed  as  she  had 
feared.      Indeed,    Tom's    whole    attitude    towards    the 
miracle  she  had  wrought  in  his  absence  puzzled  her  a 
little. 

She  had  met  him  at  the  cottage  door  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  and  after  their  first  greeting  he  had  said : 

"  Put  the  baby  down,  Thyrza.  I  can't  kiss  you 
praaperly."  Then,  with  his  face  hidden  in  her  neck,  had 
murmured :  "  It's  my  wife  I  want." 

"  But  aun't  you  justabout  pleased  wud  your  boy, 
dear  ?  "  she  asked  him  later,  when  they  were  having  tea 
and  eggs  in  a  cosy  blur  of  firelight  and  sunshine. 

"  Reckon  I  am.  But  babies  are  unaccountable  ugly ; 
and  as  fur  hoalding  him,  I'd  sooner  nuss  a  dud  shell." 

"  He  aun't  ugly,  Tom ;  everyone  says  he's  a  justabout 
lovely  child — and  weighs  near  fourteen  pounds,  which  is 
valiant  fur  a  boy  of  his  months." 

"  Maybe — I  know  naun  of  babies.  But  you,  Thyrza 
.  .  .  reckon  you're  justabout  the  waonder  of  the  world 
to  me." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  felt  his  hand  groping 
for  hers  on  her  knees  under  the  table. 

"  Reckon  you're  just  another  baby,"  she  said  tenderly. 
"  And  I'm  the  mother  of  you  both." 

241 


242  THE  FOUR  ROADS 


But  Tom  learned  to  be  father  as  well  as  husband  in 
the  days  that  followed — perhaps  it  was  the  joys  of  his 
husbandhood  which  woke  the  fatherhood  in  him.  It 
did  not  quicken  in  a  blinding  flash,  as  motherhood  had 
come  to  Thyrza  when  her  baby  was  first  laid  in  her  arms, 
but  grew  and  throve  in  his  daily  contact  with  the  little 
bit  of  helplessness  and  hope  which  he  and  Thyrza  had 
made  between  them.  It  seemed  to  develop  out  of  and 
be  part  of  his  love  for  her,  and  in  time  it  seemed  to  have 
a  tender,  mellowing  effect  on  that  love,  making  it  less 
anxious  and  passionate,  more  selfless,  more  sweet,  more 
friendly.  .  .  . 

Those  days  were  different  from  the  days  they  had 
spent  together  after  their  marriage.  They  never  went 
for  long  walks  now,  but  stopped  in  their  little  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  cottage,  where  crocuses  splashed  the 
grass  with  purple  and  egg-yellow,  and  celandines  crept 
in  under  the  hedge  from  the  fields  of  Egypt  Farm.  Here 
in  the  warm  spring  sunshine  Thyrza  would  sit,  rocking 
the  baby's  cradle  with  her  foot,  while  she  talked  to  Tom 
in  her  sweet,  drawly  voice,  of  the  little  trades  and  doings 
of  the  past  year.  Every  now  and  then  the  shop-bell  would 
ring  through  the  cottage,  and  she  would  go  off  to  serve 
and  gossip,  leaving  baby  in  his  father's  care  ..."  And 
doan't  you  dance  him,  Tom,  or  he'll  be  sick."  For  Tom 
was  bolder  now,  and  took  perilous  liberties  with  young 
William,  just  as  now,  in  his  third  year  of  soldiering,  he 
had  begun  to  take  them  with  the  dud  to  which  he  had 
compared  him.  ..."  Reckon  he'll  start  fizzing  a  bit 
before  he  goes  off." 

In  the  evenings,  when  the  child  was  asleep  in  the  cradle 
beside  their  bed,  they  would  go  across  the  road  to  the 
willow-pond,  and  sit  or  stroll  there  in  the  March  dusk. 


BABY  243 

Those  were  wonderful  days  of  spring,  a  March  which 
was  almost  May,  with  sweet  slumberous  winds,  so  thick 
and  hazy  that  the  grumble  of  the  unceasing  guns  was  lost 
in  them,  and  the  War's  heart-beat  never  broke  the 
meadow's  stillness.  Soft  primrose  fogs  trailed  over 
Horse  Eye  Marshes  under  the  rising  stars,  and  away  be- 
yond them  on  the  sea  a  siren  crooned,  like  the  voice  of 
the  twilight  and  the  deep.  .  .  .  When  the  sky  was  dark 
round  the  big  stars,  and  Orion's  sword  hung  above 
Molash  Woods,  they  would  go  in  to  their  supper  in  the 
lamplight,  to  the  tender,  intimate  talk  of  their  evening 
hours,  and  then  up,  with  big  reeling  shadows  moving  be- 
fore them  on  beam  and  plaster  in  the  candlelight,  to  the 
dim  spring-smelling  room  where  their  baby  slept,  and 
where  Thyrza  would  sleep  with  her  hair  spread  on  the 
pillow  like  a  bed  of  celandines,  and  Tom  with  his  brown, 
war-caloused  hand  in  the  soft  clasp  of  hers,  and  his  head 
in  the  hollow  of  her  breast. 

Tom,  of  course,  paid  many  visits  to  his  family  at 
Worge.  He  found  Mus'  Beatup  an  invalid  in  the  kitchen, 
his  leg  propped  on  a  chair  before  him.  Owing  to  his 
constitution  it  had  mended  slowly,  but  four  months  of, 
forced  soberness  had  worked  a  wonderful  result  in  toning 
up  his  whole  body,  so  that  in  spite  of  his  illness  his  eye 
was  brighter,  his  hand  steadier  and  his  voice  clearer  than 
at  any  time  in  Tom's  memory.  Unfortunately,  the  bore- 
dom and  privations  of  his  state  had  only  increased  that 
"  objectiousness  "  of  disposition  which  Mrs.  Beatup  had 
deplored,  and  Tom  had  to  sit  and  listen  to  long  harangues, 
in  which  the  War,  the  Christian  Religion,  God,  Govun- 
munt,  Monogamy,  and  War  Agricultural  Committees 
were  toppled  together  in  a  common  ruin.  Nell  no  longer 
argued  with  him,  his  flicks  and  cuts  had  no  power  to 
wound,  and  he  soon  gave  up  trying  to  stir  her  into  the 
little  furies  which  had  led  to  so  many  rousing  arguments. 


244  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

It  was  queer  how  she  had  changed.  .  .  .  Her  chief  argu- 
ments were  with  her  mother,  who  seemed  to  think  that 
the  ceremony  of  marriage  was  bound  automatically  to 
create  an  abstract  love  of  housekeeping  in  the  female 
breast.  She  was  astonished  to  find  that  Nell  had  now  no 
greater  love  for  making  beds  and  washing  dishes  than  in 
the  days  of  her  spinsterhood. 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  married  woman  as  cudn't  maake 
a  sago  pudden,"  she  said  to  Tom. 

"  She'd  maake  it  fur  her  husband  quick  enough,"  said 
Tom  with  a  grin. 

"Well,  Steve's  here  most  Sundays,  and  she's  never 
maade  him  naun  but  a  ginger-cake,  and  she  used  to  maake 
that  before  she  wur  wed." 

"Wait  till  she's  got  a  liddle  home  of  her  own  .  .  . 
that'll  be  all  the  difference,  woan't  it,  Nell  ?  " 

Nell  smiled  faintly. 

"Would  you  believe  it,  Tom?"  said  Mrs.  Beatup, 
"  but  when  we  want  a  suet  pudden  now  we've  got  to  git 
it  off  a  meat-card." 

"  We've  heard  out  there  as  all  you  civvies  wur  on 
rations — and  Mus'  Archie  one  day  he  got  the  platoon 
for  a  bit  of  parlez-voo  and  toald  us  as  how  you  wurn't 
starved,  as  so  many  chaps  had  letters  from  their  wives, 
saying  as  they  cud  git  naun  to  eat." 

"  Not  starved !  That's  valiant.  And  wot  does  Mus' 
Archie  know  about  it?  Seemingly  you  doan't  know  wot 
war  is  out  there  wud  all  your  tea  and  your  butter  and 
your  meat.  Reckon  there'll  never  be  peace  as  long  as 
soldiering's  the  only  job  you  can  git  fed  at." 

"  Well,  you've  guv  me  an  unaccountable  good  tea  fur 
a  starving  family.  And  now  I'll  be  off  and  see  Harry 
about  the  farm." 

Worge  was  in  the  midst  of  its  spring  sowings,  and 
Harry  spent  his  long  days  in  the  fields  whose  harvest  he 


BABY  245 

would  not  see.  The  Volunteer  field  was  in  potash  now, 
dug  for  potatoes,  and  there  were  six  more  acres  of 
potatoes  over  by  the  Sunk. 

"  They  say  as  how  a  hunderd  acres  of  potatoes  ull 
feed  four  hunderd  people  fur  a  year,"  he  said  to  Tom — 
"  and  yit  thur's  always  summat  unaccountable  mean 
about  a  spud." 

Tom  laughed.  "  You've  done  valiant,  Harry."  Now 
that  his  brother's  adventure  had  justified  itself,  he  had 
abandoned  a  good  deal  of  his  croaking  attitude.  Besides, 
if  things  really  were  getting  scarce  at  home  ...  he 
wouldn't  like  to  think  of  Thyrza  and  the  baby  .  .  . 

"  I've  done  my  best,"  said  Harry  moodily,  "  but  it's 
over  now.  Reckon  I'll  be  called  up  in  two  months' 
time." 

"  Who'd  have  thought  it ! — you  eighteen ! — and  the 
liddle  skinny  limb  of  wickedness  you  wur  when  I  went 
away.  I'd  never  have  believed  it,  if  you'd  toald  me  tha£ 
in  two  year  you'd  have  maade  more  of  Worge  than  I  in 
five." 

"  Father  wants  me  to  appeal ;  but  it  ud  never  do,  I 
reckon.  You  cudn't  git  off,  so  I'm  not  lik  to." 

"  And  it  wouldn't  be  praaper,  nuther,"  said  Tom,  rather 
huffily.  "  You  wud  a  brother  in  the  Sussex !  Farming's 
all  very  well,  Harry,  but  soldiering's  better.  I  didn't 
think  it  myself  at  one  time,  but  now  I  know  different. 
A  farm's  hemmed  liddle  use  if  Kayser  Bill  gits  his  per- 
ishing plaace  in  the  sun.  Besides,  the  praaper  job  fur  a 
praaper  Sussex  chap  is  along  of  other  Sussex  chaps,  fight- 
ing fur  their  farms.  That's  whur  I'd  lik  my  old  brother 
to  be,  and  whur  he'd  like  to  be  himself,  I  reckon." 

"  I  shudn't,"  said  Harry,  "  any  more  than  you  did  at 
fust." 

"  I  aun't  maaking  out  as  I  enjoy  it — so  you  needn't 
jump  at  me  lik  that.  The  chap  who  tells  you  he  enjoys 


246  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

it  out  thur,  reckon  he  taakes  you  fur  a  middling  thick 
'un,  or  he's  middling  thick  himself.  But  wot  I  say  is, 
that  it's  the  praaper  plaace  fur  a  Sussex  chap  to  be. 
Ask  me  wot  I  enjoy,  and  I'll  tell  you  " — and  Tom  jerked 
his  pipe-stem  over  the  ribbed  hump  of  the  field  towards 
the  cottages  of  Sunday  Street,  stewing  like  apples  in  the 
sunshine.  "  My  fancy's  a  liddle  hoame  of  my  own,  and 
a  wife  and  child  in  it,  and  my  own  bit  of  ground  out- 
side the  door ;  and  when  we've  wound  up  the  watch  on 
the  Rhine,  reckon  I'll  be  justabout  glad  to  taake  my 
coat  off  and  sit  in  the  sun  and  see  my  liddle  'un  playing 
raound — and  be  shut  of  all  that  tedious  hell  wot's  over 
thur,  Harry,  acrost  Horse  Eye  and  the  Channel,  if  folks 
at  home  only  knew  it — which  seemingly  they  doan't  .  .  . 
and  I'm  middling  glad  they  doan't,  surelye." 

Harry  was  impressed,  and  a  little  ashamed. 

"  Never  think  as  I  aun't  willing,  Tom.  I'm  willing 
enough,  though  I'd  grown  so  unaccountable  set  on  the 
new  ploughs.  Howsumdever,  I've  got  things  started  like, 
and  Zacky,  maybe,  when  I'm  gone,  he'll  pull  to  and  carry 
on,  saum  as  I  did ;  and  father,  he's  twice  the  head  he  had 
afore  he  bruk  his  leg  and  cudn't  git  his  drink.  Seem- 
ingly, they'll  do  valiant  wudout  me,  and  I  ...  well,  I've 
come  to  love  these  fields  so  middling  dear  that  if  one  day 
I  find  I've  got  to  die  fur  them,  reckon  I  shudn't  ought 
to  mind  much." 


"  I  must  go  and  see  Mus'  Sumption,"  said  Tom  to 
Thyrza.  He  said  it  several  times  before  he  went,  for  the 
days  swam  in  a  golden  fog  over  his  home,  shutting  him 
into  enchanted  ground.  It  was  hard  to  break  out  of  it 
even  to  go  to  Worge,  and  he  found  himself  shelving  the 
thought  of  leaving  for  two  hours  of  worse  company  the 
little  garden  where  the  daffodils  followed  the  crocuses, 


BABY  247 

the  shop  all  stuffy  with  the  smell  of  tea  and  candles, 
the  bluish-whiteness  of  the  little  sag-roofed  rooms,  and 
his  wife  and  child,  who  were  not  so  much  figures  in  the 
frame  of  it  all  as  an  essence,  a  sunshine  soaking  through 
it.  ...  However,  Thyrza  kept  him  to  his  word. 

"  I'm  tedious  sorry  fur  Mus'  Sumption — he  looks  that 
worn  and  wild.  Maybe  you  cud  give  him  news  of 
Jerry." 

"  No  good  news." 

"  Well,  go  up  and  have  a  chat  wud  the  pore  soul. 
Reckon  he'll  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  and  you're  sure 
to  think  of  summat  comforting  to  say." 

So  Tom  went,  one  evening  after  tea.  He  found  the 
minister  in  his  faded  threadbare  room  at  the  Horse- 
lunges,  writing  the  letter  which  every  week  he  dropped 
into  the  post-box  at  Brownbread  Street,  and  generally 
heard  no  more  of.  The  evening  sun  poured  angrily  on 
his  stooped  grey  head,  and  made  the  room  warm  and 
stuffy  without  the  expense  of  a  fire.  The  old,  old  cat 
sat  sulkily  before  the  empty  grate,  and  the  white  mice 
tapped  with  little  pink  hands  on  the  glass  front  of  their 
cage.  The  thrush  had  been  dead  some  months. 

"  Hello,  Tom.  This  is  kind  of  you,  lad,"  and  Mr. 
Sumption  sprang  up  in  hearty  welcome,  shaking  Tom  by 
the  hand,  and  actually  tipping  the  cat  out  of  the  arm- 
chair so  that  his  visitor  might  be  comfortably  seated. 

Tom  sat  down  and  pulled  out  his  pipe,  and  for  some 
minutes  they  edged  and  skated  about  on  general  topics. 
Then  the  minister  asked  suddenly — 

"  And  how  did  you  leave  Jerry?  " 

"  Valiant " — certainly  Jeremiah  Meridian  Sumption 
was  a  hardy,  healthy  little  beggar. 

But  Mr.  Sumption  was  not  deceived. 

"  Valiant  in  body,  maybe.  But,  Tom,  I  fear  for  his 
immortal  soul." 


248  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Tom  did  not  know  wat  to  say.  He  had  never  before 
seen  the  minister  without  his  glorious  pretence  of  faith 
in  his  son. 

"  It's  strange,"  continued  Mr.  Sumption,  "  but  from  his 
birth  that  boy  was  seemingly  marked  out  by  Satan. 
Maybe  it  was  the  bad  blood  of  the  Rossarmescroes  or 
Hearns ;  his  mother  was  the  sweetest,  loveliest  soul  that 
ever  slept  under  a  bush ;  but  there's  no  denying  that  the 
Hearns'  blood  is  bad  blood — roving,  thieving,  lusting, 
Satanic  blood — and  he's  got  it  in  him,  has  my  boy,  more 
than  he's  got  the  decent  blood  of  my  fathers." 

"  Has  he  written  to  you  lately  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  writes  now  and  again.  He's  fond  of  me. 
But  he  doesn't  sound  happy.  Then  Bill  Putland,  when 
he  came  home  to  get  married,  he  told  me " 

There  was  silence,  and  Tom  fidgeted. 

"  He  told  me  as  Jerry  had  got  hold  of  a  French  girl 
in  one  of  the  towns — a  bad  lot,  seemingly." 

"  He'll  get  over  it,"  said  Tom.  "  Reckon  he  can't  have 
much  love  fur  such  a  critter." 

"  You  knew  of  it  too,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we've  all  heard.  He  got  First  Field  Punishment 
on  her  account,  fur " 

"  Go  on." 

"  Thur's  naun  to  say.  I  guess  she's  bad  all  through. 
Some  of  these  girls,  they're  bits  of  stuff  as  you  might 
say,  but  they'd  never  kip  a  man  off  his  duty  or  git  him 
into  trouble  on  their  account.  Howsumdever,  the  wuss 
she  is  the  sooner  he's  lik  to  git  shut  of  her." 

Mr.  Sumption  groaned. 

"If  only  he  could  have  married  your  sister  Ivy!  " 

"  Ivy  aun't  to  blame." 

"  No — she's  not.  I  mustn't  be  unjust.  She  treated 
him  fair  and  square  all  through ;  he  says  it  himself.  But, 
Tom,  it's  terrible  to  think  that  one  human  creature's  got 


BABY  249 

the  power  to  give  another  to  Satan,  and  no  blame  at- 
tached to  either." 

"  Maybe  Jerry  wur  Satan's  before  he  wur  Ivy's,"  said 
Tom  sharply ;  then  felt  ashamed  as  he  met  the  minister's 
eyes  with  their  tortured  glow. 

"  Maybe  you're  right.  This  is  Satan's  hour.  He's  got 
us  all  for  a  season,  and  this  War  is  his  last  kick  before 
the  Angel  of  the  Lord  chains  him  down  in  the  lake  which 
burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone.  These  are  the  day_s  of 
which  the  Scripture  saith,  that  unless  the  Lord  should 
shorten  them  for  the  Elect's  sake,  no  man  could  be 
saved." 

"  I  guess  we've  nearly  done  the  Lord's  job.  The  per- 
ishers  are  even  more  fed  up  than  us,  which  is  putting  it 
strong.  Let  'em  start  this  Big  Push  of  theirn  as  thur's 
bin  such  a  talk  about.  Doan't  you  vrother  about  Jerry, 
Mus'  Sumption — he'll  be  shut  of  this  girl  before  long, 
and  you'll  git  him  back  here  and  wed  him  to  a  good  soul 
as  ull  do  better  fur  him  than  Ivy." 

Mr.  Sumption  shook  his  head. 

"  This  is  the  war  which  shall  end  the  world." 

"  Reckon  I  aun't  going  out  there,  away  from  my  wife 
and  child  and  home,  all  among  the  whizz-bangs  and  the 
coal-boxes,  and  git  all  over  mud  and  lice,  jest  to  help  on 
the  end  of  the  world.  This  world's  good  enough  fur  me, 
and  I  hope  it'll  go  on  a  bit  longer  after  peace  is  signed, 
so  as  I'll  git  a  chance  of  enjoying  it." 

"  And  they  shall  reign  with  Him  a  thousand  years." 

Tom  was  a  little  weary  of  Mr.  Sumption  in  this  mood ; 
however,  he  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  let  him  run  on. 

"  You  must  be  blind  indeed,"  continued  the  minister, 
"  if  you  don't  see  how  the  Scriptures  have  been  fulfilled — 
nation  against  nation  and  kingdom  against  kingdom,  and 
the  Holy  City  given  back  to  the  Jews,  and  the  sun  turned 
to  darkness  with  the  clouds  of  poisoned  gas,  and  the  moon 


250  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

to  blood  .  .  .  the  blood  of  the  poor  souls  that  are  killed 
in  moonlight  air-raids.  ..." 

Tom  knocked  out  his  pipe. 

"  Then  at  last " — and  the  minister's  eye  kindled  and 
his  whole  sunburnt  face  glowed  with  the  mixed  fires  of 
hope  and  fanaticism — "  the  sign  of  the  Son  of  Man  shall 
appear  in  the  heavens,  and  He  shall  come  again  in  power 
and  great  glory.  Even  so,  come,  Lord  Jesus — but  come 
before  our  hearts  are  all  broken.  What's  the  use  of 
chaining  up  the  Dragon  in  the  Lake  if  he's  already  de- 
voured the  world?  Shorten  these  days,  for  the  Elect's 
sake — save  us  from  the  burning,  fiery  furnace  which  is 
making  frizzle  of  our  bones  and  cinders  of  our 
hearts." 

He  suddenly  dropped  his  head  between  his  hands. 
Tom  felt  a  bit  upset.  He  had  again  and  again  heard  all 
this  in  chapel,  but  it  was  embarrassing  and  rather  alarm- 
ing to  have  it  coming  from  the  next  chair. 

"  Reckon  you  mind  this  War  more'n  I  do,"  he  re- 
marked lamely. 

"  Because  to  you  it  is  just  war — while  to  me  it's  Judg- 
ment. This  is  the  day  of  which  the  Prophet  spoke,  the 
day  that  shall  burn  as  an  oven,  and  our  sons  and  daugh- 
ters shall  burn  as  tow.  .  .  .  Bless  you,  young  chap! 
there  have  been  other  wars — the  country's  full  of  their 
dead  names  .  .  .  there  were  two  lakes  of  blood  up  at 
Senlac.  .  .  .  But  this  war,  it's  the  End,  it's  Doomsday. 
Now  it  shall  be  proved  indeed  that  Christ  died  for  the 
Elect,  for  all  save  the  Elect  shall  perish.  Tom,  I  have 
a  terrible  fear  that  I  shall  have  to  stand  by  and  see  my 
boy  perish." 

"  Oh,  he'll  pull  through  right  enough — give  him  his 
head  and  he'll  come  to  his  senses  afore  long." 

"  I'm  afraid  not."  Mr.  Sumption  rose  and  began 
walking  up  and  down  the  room,  his  hands  clasped  behind 


BABY  251 

him.  The  dipping  sun  poured  over  his  burly  figure,  show- 
ing up  in  its  beautiful  merciless  beam  the  seediness  of 
his  coat  and  the  worn  hollows  and  graven  lines  of  his 
face.  "  I'm  afraid  not,  Tom  Beatup.  I'm  afraid  I'll  have 
to  stand  by  and  see  my  boy  damned.  I'll  stand  among 
the  sheep  and  see  him  among  the  goats.  There's  no  good 
trying  to  job  myself  into  thinking  he's  one  of  the  Elect — 
he  knows  he  isn't,  and  I  know  it.  Whereas  I  have 
Assurance — I've  had  it  a  dunnamany  years.  Between  us 
two  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed.  I'll  have  to  dwell  for 
ever  in  Mount  Sion,  in  the  general  assembly  and  church 
of  the  firstborn,  and  see  him  for  ever  across  the  gulf, 
in  hell." 

"  Then  reckon  you'll  be  in  hell  yourself." 

"  It  seems  like  it.  But  the  ways  of  the  Lord  are  past 
finding  out.  .  .  .  And  I  would  willingly  give  my  soul 
for  Jerry's — the  soul  the  Lord  has  damned  from  the 
womb.  ..." 

Tom  stood  up.  He  felt  he  could  not  stand  any  more 
of  this. 

"  Seemingly  your  religion  aun't  much  of  a  comfort  to 
you.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  be  going  now." 

"  You'll  come  again  ?  " 

"  Reckon  I  will,  if  you're  lonesome." 

"  And  look  here,  Tom ;  you  won't  say  a  word  to  other 
folk  of  what  I've  spoken — about  Jerry,  I  mean.  It  ud 
never  do  if  the  parish  came  to  think  that  he  was  getting 
into  bad  ways." 

"  I'll  say  naun — trust  me.  Reckon  Jerry's  middling 
lucky  to  have  you  stick  by  him  as  you  do." 

"  Jerry  once  said  he  sometimes  felt  as  if  there  was 
only  me  between  him  and  hell.  Seemingly  I'm  the  only 
friend  he's  got." 

Tom  felt  very  sorry  for  Mr.  Sumption.  He  told 
Thyrza  that  he  thought  he  must  be  getting  queer  with 


252  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

his  troubles,  and  Thyrza  immediately  planned  to  take 
the  baby  to  see  him ;  and  a  day  or  two  later  they  asked 
him  down  to  the  shop  for  the  afternoon,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him  momentarily  forget  his  troubles 
in  a  good  tea.  "  Reckon  the  poor  soul  thinks  a  lot  of 
his  inside,"  said  Thyrza,  "  and  doan't  always  git  enough 
to  fill  it  with." 


The  last  days  of  Tom's  fortnight  seemed  to  rush  by 
in  spate ;  they  blew  before  the  March  wind  like  the  dust. 
Thyrza  hurried  on  her  little  preparations  for  his  de- 
parture— she  was  making  him  new  shirts,  and  with  loving 
hands  repairing  all  of  his  that  was  frayed  and  worn, 
from  his  shirt  to  his  soul.  .  .  .  For  even  Tom's  simple 
soul  had  been  touched  by  the  blight  of  war,  and  there 
was  a  look  at  the  back  of  his  eyes  which  came  from 
things  he  never  spoke  of  ...  things  he  had  seen  out 
there  in  the  land  of  horrors,  which  the  folk  at  home  did 
not  realise — and  he  was  unaccountable  glad  they  did  not. 
Thyrza's  love  had  driven  that  look  to  the  back  of  his 
eyes  and  those  memories  to  the  back  of  his  heart,  though 
probably  she  would  never  be  able  to  drive  either  the  look 
or  the  memories  quite  away.  Such  things  were  now  the 
lot  of  boys.  .  .  . 

He  still  went  occasionally  to  Worge,  and  sat  with  his 
father  and  mother  in  the  kitchen,  or  gave  Harry  a  hand 
on  the  farm.  He  persuaded  Mus'  Beatup  to  engage  a 
lad  for  cow  and  stable  work,  so  that  his  brother's  burden 
was  made  lighter.  One  day  Ivy  came  over  with  Sergeant 
Staples.  The  slow  formalities  of  his  discharge  were 
crawling  on,  and  she  hoped  to  be  married  and  to  sail 
for  Canada  before  the  summer  was  out.  It  struck  Tom 
that  she  had  sweetened  and  sobered  since  he  saw  her  last. 
Rumours  of  her  affair  with  Seagrim  had  reached  him, 


BABY  253 

and  he  was  glad  to  have  her  settled  down.  "  Ricky's  a 
valiant  pal,"  she  said  once,  and  the  words  struck  the  dif- 
ference between  her  love  for  him  and  the  love  she  had 
had  for  Seagrim,  and  would  have  explained,  if  anyone 
had  cared  for  an  explanation,  the  comparative  ease  and 
quickness  with  which  she  had  turned  from  one  to  the 
other.  Seagrim  had  never  been  a  pal — he  had  been  a 
spell,  a  marvel,  a  magic  that  would  never  come  back,  a 
wonder  which  a  woman's  heart  must  know  but  can 
seldom  keep.  Ricky,  with  his  red  hair  and  grinning 
monkeyish  face,  would  never  throw  over  Ivy's  world  the 
glamour  of  those  weeks  with  Seagrim,  he  would  never 
transfigure  the  earth  or  turn  pots  to  gold.  .  .  .  On  the 
other  hand,  as  Ivy  said,  he  was  better  to  jog  along  with, 
and  she  was  certainly  born  for  the  ardours  and  endur- 
ances of  a  colonial's  wife — "  So  that's  settled  and  done 
with,"  she  thought  to  herself  with  a  contented  sigh — "  and 
I  reckon  I'm  a  middling  lucky  girl.  It's  queer  how  Nell 
and  me  have  seemingly  done  just  the  saum — lost  our 
hearts  to  one  man  and  then  gone  and  married  another. 
But  I  kept  my  head  and  did  it  sensible,  while  she,  reckon 
she  lost  hers  and  did  it  unsensible.  Poor  Nell !  .  .  . 
but  I  told  her  straight  as  Kadwell  wur  a  swine." 

Nell  had  left  the  farm  about  four  days  after  Tom's 
return.  Her  husband  had  suddenly  claimed  her,  and  had 
fetched  her  away  to  spend  his  last  leave  with  him  in 
London.  He  expected  to  go  to  France  in  a  week  or  two 
now.  Tom  did  not  dislike  his  new  brother-in-law ;  he 
thought  him  a  "  good  feller,"  and  considered  him  won- 
derfully forbearing  with  Nell  when  she  cried  on  saying 
good-bye  to  her  mother,  and  went  away  with  her  pretty 
face  all  marbled  and  blotched  with  tears. 

"  I've  got  no  patience  wud  girls  wot  taa'ke  on  them 
silly  maidenish  airs,"  he  said  to  Thyrza.  "  You  never 
cried  when  you  caum  to  me,  surelye." 


254  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  I'd  no  mother  to  say  good-bye  to.  Some  girls  always 
cry  when  they  say  good-bye  to  their  mothers." 

"  Nell  never  used  to  be  so  set  on  mother  in  the  oald 
times." 

"  But  it's  different  now — it  always  is,"  said  Thyrza 
wisely — "  that's  why  some  folks  ud  sooner  have  a  darter 
than  a  son.  When  a  son  goes  marrying  he  turns  away 
from  his  parents,  but  a  girl,  the  more  she  loves  outside 
the  more  she  loves  at  home." 

Tom  pondered  her  words,  and  found  himself  beginning 
to  feel  a  little  guilty. 

"  Maybe  you're  right.  I  hope  Will  woan't  go  and  dis- 
remember  us  when  he  weds." 

"  Reckon  he  will,"  said  Thyrza — "  it's  only  nature." 

Tom  went  up  to  Worge  every  evening  till  the  end  of 
his  leave. 


The  last  evening  came,  and  Tom's  good-byes. 

"  Reckon  it's  always  '  good-bye '  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Beatup.  "  Good-bye  to  Ivy,  good-bye  to  Nell,  good- 
bye to  Tom — sims  as  if,  as  if  that  ward  ud  git  lik  my 
oald  broom,  wore  out  from  overuse." 

"  Thur'd  be  no  good-byes  if  thur  hadn't  bin  howdy- 
dos  fust.  So  cheer  up,  mother,  and  we'll  be  saying 
howdy-do  agaun  before  Michaelmas." 

"  And  then  good-bye.  Oh,  Tom,  when  ull  this  tedious 
war  have  done  ?  " 

"  When  it's  finished.  Doan't  you  fret  over  that,  mother 
— reckon  that  aun't  your  job." 

"  I  wish  it  ud  have  done,  though,  before  our  hearts 
are  broke." 

Nell  was  expected  home  that  evening,  and  Mrs.  Beatup 
persuaded  Tom  to  wait  for  her.  He  spent  the  interval 
going  over  the  farm  with  Harry,  and  giving  last  advice, 


BABY  255 

though  it  was  astonishing  how  firm  on  his  legs  his  brother 
now  stood.  He  also  took  his  chance  of  a  straight  talk 
with  Zacky. 

"  Reckon  you're  growing  up  lik  a  young  colt,  and  you'll 
have  to  taake  your  turn  now — step  into  Harry's  plaace 
saum  as  he  stepped  into  mine." 

Zacky's  besetting  sin  was  not  a  lust  for  adventure  in 
woods  and  distant  fields ;  he  moved  in  a  more  humdrum 
circle  of  dereliction — marbles  and  conkers  and  worms  and 
string.  However,  Tom  discovered  that  he  had  a  passion 
for  "  taking  things  to  pieces  "  and  hoped  to  inspire  him 
to  zeal  over  the  new  mechanical  reaper  which  was  that 
year  to  be  the  wonder  of  Worge's  harvest. 

To  everyone's  disappointment,  Nell  did  not  arrive  in 
a  cab.  She  came  on  foot  from  Senlac  station,  leaving 
her  box  to  follow  by  the  carrier.  Mrs.  Beatup  felt  that 
Tom  had  been  cheated,  on  his  last  day  at  home,  of  a  fine 
spectacular  entertainment,  and  was  inclined  to  be  peevish 
with  Nell  on  his  account. 

"  Reckon  it  wurn't  your  husband  who  told  you  to  walk 
six  mile  in  the  dust." 

"  No — but  it's  such  a  beautiful  evening,  and  I  felt  I 
wanted  the  fresh  air  after  London." 

She  looked  worn  and  fagged,  as  she  sat  down  by  the 
fire,  spreading  out  her  pale  hands  to  the  flames  to  warm. 

Mrs.  Beatup  sniffed. 

"  Reckon  thur's  more  air-raids  than  air  in  London," 
said  Tom — "  Ha !  ha !  "  and  they  all  laughed  at  the  joke. 

"  But  they  dudn't  have  naun  while  Nell  was  there," 
said  Mrs.  Beatup,  continuing  her  grumble.  "  Nell,  how 
dud  you  lik  the  Strand  Paliss  Hotel  ?  " 

"  Oh,  pretty  fair — it  was  very  grand,  but  a  great  big 
barrack  like  that  makes  my  head  turn  round." 

"  How  big  was  it  ? "  asked  Zacky.  "  As  big  as 
church?" 


256  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Bigger  a  dunnamany  times,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup. 
"  I've  seen  the  Hotel  Metropoil  in  Brighton,  and  reckon 
you  cud  git  the  whole  street  into  it." 

"  Did  you  have  a  fire  in  your  bedroom  ?  " 

"  No — there  were  hot  pipes." 

"Hot  pipes!  How  queer! — I  shud  feel  as  if  I  wur 
in  a  boiler." 

"  And  there  was  hot  and  cold  water  laid  on." 

"  Reckon  you  washed." 

"  I  had  a  bath." 

"  In  your  room  ?  " 

"  No — in  a  bathroom." 

"  A  real  white  bath  in  a  bathroom !  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Beatup 
was  regaining  confidence  in  her  daughter.  "  You'll  be 
gitting  too  grand  fur  us  here.  They  say  as  once  you 
start  taaking  baths  it's  like  taaking  drams,  and  you 
can't  git  shut  of  it.  I'll  have  to  see  if  I  can't  fix  fur  you 
to  have  the  wash-tub  now  and  agaun.  .  .  .  Oh,  you'll 
find  us  plain  folks  here." 

Nell  did  not  speak;  she  was  stooping  over  the  fire 
and  her  spread  hands  shook  a  little. 

"  Reckon  she's  low,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  to  Tom ;  "  she's  said  good-bye  to  her  man,  and^ 
she's  vrothering  lest  he  never  comes  back.  It's  always 
*  good-bye  '  fur  her  lik  fur  the  rest  of  us." 

"  It'll  have  to  be  '  good-bye  '  fur  me  now,  mother.  I 
must  be  gitting  hoame." 

Mrs.  Beatup  stood  up  sorrowfully — 

"  Oh,  Tom,  I've  a  feeling  as  you'll  never  come  back." 

"  You've  always  had  that  feeling,  mother — and  I've 
always  come  back,  surelye." 

"  But  maybe  I'm  right  this  time.  They  say  as  the  Ger- 
mans ull  maake  a  gurt  push  this  Spring,  and  I  reckon 
they're  sure  to  kill  you  if  they  can." 

"  Reckon  they'll  have  a  try — and  if  my  number's  up 


BABY  257 

I  mun  go,  and  if  it  aun't,  I  mun  stay.    So  thur's  no  sense 
in  vrothering." 

"  You  spik  very  differunt,  Tom,  from  when  you  wur 
a  lad." 

"  I  feel  different,  you  can  bet." 

"  And  yit  it's  scarce  two  year  agone  since  you  wur 
naun  but  a  boy,  and  now  you're  naun  of  a  boy  that  I 
can  see — you're  a  married  man  and  the  father  of  a 
child." 

"  And  whur's  the  harm  of  it  ? — you  needn't  look  so 
glum." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  Then  he 
kissed  his  father — 

"  Good-bye,  dad — you'll  be  climbing  fences  afore  I'm 
back,  and — "  in  a  friendly  whisper,  "  you  kip  away  from 
that  old  Volunteer.  See  wot  gitting  shut  of  the  drink  has 
maade  you — you're  twice  the  man,  fur  all  your  leg.  You 
kip  on  wud  it,  faather.  You've  got  a  start  like — it  ought 
to  be  easy  now." 

"  Kip  on  wud  wot,  my  lad  ? — wud  my  leg,  or  the  drink, 
or  doing  wudout  the  drink?  You  doan't  spik  clear  and 
expressly — reckon  you're  gitting  just  a  brutal  soldier." 

"  Maybe  I  am,  Faather." 

"  And  you'll  never  come  raound  me  to  kip  teetotal  when 
I  think  of  them  Russians — all  got  shut  of  drink  the  fust 
month  of  the  war,  and  then  went  and  bust  up  and  ruined 
us.  It's  bin  proved  as  the  war  ull  go  on  a  dunnamany 
years  on  account  of  them  valiant  teetotallers.  If  we 
British  all  turn  teetotal  too,  reckon  as  the  war  ull  last  fur 
ever." 

"  Reckon  you've  got  the  brains !  "  said  Tom,  but  not  in 
quite  the  same  tone  as  he  used  to  say  it. 

He  said  good-bye  to  Harry  and  Zacky,  and  to  Nell — 
with  a  pat  on  her  shoulder  and  a  "  Doan't  you  fret,  my 
dear — he'll  come  back." 


258  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Mrs.  Beatup  went  down  with  him  to  the  end  of  the 
drive.  She  looked  on  this  as  her  privilege,  and  also  had 
some  hazy  idea  about  giving  him  good  advice.  All  she 
could  think  of  on  the  present  occasion  was  to  "  Kip  sober 
and  finish  the  war." 

"  Wish  that  being  my  f  aather's  son  maade  it  as  easy 
to  do  one  as  it  does  to  do  t'other.  Now  doan't  you  start 
crying,  fur  I  tell  you  I'll  be  back  before  you  scarce  know 
I'm  a-gone." 

"  It's  queer,  Tom  .  .  .  now,  thur's  summat  I  want  to 
know.  Tell  me — is  a  wife  better  than  a  mother?" 

"  Better — but  different.  Doan't  you  fear,  mother.  I'll 
always  want  you.  Maybe  I  went  and  disremembered  you 
and  faather  a  bit  after  I  wur  married,  but  now  I've  a 
youngster  of  my  own  it  just  shows  me  a  liddle  bit  of 
wot  you  feel  .  .  .  and  I'm  sorry." 

He  suddenly  kissed  her  work-soiled,  roughened  hand, 
with  its  broken  nails  and  thick  dull  wedding-ring  sunk 
into  the  gnarled  finger. 

"  That's  wot  they  do  to  ladies  in  France." 


She  watched  him  walk  off  down  the  Street,  stopping 
to  light  his  pipe  where  the  oast  of  Egypt  Farm  made  a 
lee  against  the  racing  wind.  Then  she  walked  slowly  and 
heavily  back  to  the  house,  planning  a  little  consolation 
for  herself  in  listening  to  Nell's  tale  of  wonders. 

But  when  she  came  to  the  kitchen  she  found  that 
Nell  had  gone  upstairs — to  wash,  Mus'  Beatup  told  her. 
Moved  by  a  spasm  of  tenderness,  she  took  the  kettle  from 
the  fire  and  creaked  off  with  it  to  her  daughter's  room. 

Knocking  at  bedroom  doors  was  a  refinement  unknown 
at  Worge.  Mrs.  Beatup  accordingly  burst  in,  to  find  Nell 
sitting  on  the  bed,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 


BABY  259 

She  had  taken  off  her  gown,  and  sat  arrayed  in  a  short 
silk  petticoat  and  an  under-bodice  of  a  transparency  that 
made  her  mother  gasp ;  over  her  shoulders  was  nothing 
but  two  pale-blue  ribbons,  against  which  her  arms  showed 
yellowish-white  and  plumper  than  they  used  to  be.  So 
astonished  was  Mrs.  Beatup  at  this  display  that  she 
scarcely  noticed  the  hidden  face. 

"  Nell,  how  fine !  But  you'll  catch  your  death — I 
wonder  your  husband  let  you  ..."  Her  voice  trailed 
off,  for  Nell  had  dropped  her  hands,  and  her  face  was 
running  with  tears. 

"  My  poor  liddle  girl !  " — the  mother's  heart  went  out 
in  pity.  She  put  the  kettle  on  the  floor,  and  going  over 
to  the  bed,  sat  down  on  it  with  a  great  creaking  of 
springs,  and  put  her  arms  round  her  daughter — at  first 
rather  gingerly,  for  fear  of  spoiling  so  much  elegance, 
then  straining  them  closer,  as  Nell,  melted  into  an  aban- 
donment of  weakness,  began  to  sob  against  her  breast. 

"  My  poor  liddle  girl !  .  .  .  It's  unaccountable  sad 
fur  you.  I  know.  ...  I  know.  .  .  .  But  doan't  you 
vrother,  chick — he'll  come  back.  I've  a  feeling  as  he'll 
come  back." 

A  long  shudder  passed  through  Nell.  Then  suddenly 
she  raised  herself,  gripping  her  mother's  arms,  while  her 
eyes  blazed  through  her  tears.  "  Oh,  mother,  mother 
.  .  .  don't  you  see?  .  .  .  it's  not  that  I'm  afraid  he 
won't  come  back  .  .  .  it's  that  I'm  afraid  he  will." 

She  threw  herself  down  upon  the  pillow,  sobbing  with 
the  accumulated  misery,  humiliation,  rage  and  dread  of 
weeks.  Mrs.  Beatup  stared  at  her,  dumbfounded. 

"  Nell — wot  are  you  talking  of  ?  You  doan't  want 
Steve  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  No — I  hate  him.  I — I  .  .  .  if  he  comes  back  .  .  . 
and  takes  me  away  to  be  my  husband  for  good,  I — I'll 
kill  myself." 


260  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Reckon  you  doan't  know  what  you're  saying.  You 
loved  him  unaccountable  when  you  wur  wed." 

"  I  didn't  love  him  .  .  .  not  truly.  And  he's  killed 
the  little  love  I  had." 

"But  all  the  fine  things  he's  guv  you.   ..." 

"  Doan't  talk  about  them.  They're  just  part  of  the 
horribleness." 

"Then  you're  telling  me  as  you  maade  a  mistake?" 

"  Reckon  I  did.  Reckon  my  only  chance  now  is  that 
he  won't  come  back." 

She  began  to  sob  again,  not  tempestuously,  but  slowly 
and  painfully,  gradually  jerking  to  silence.  A  soft  green 
twilight  deepened  in  the  room,  and  the  low  gurgling  calls 
of  starlings  trilled  under  the  eaves.  The  mother  still  sat 
on  the  bed-foot,  staring  at  her  daughter,  who  now  lay 
still,  a  pool  of  blue  in  the  dusk  with  her  silk  petticoat,  her 
shoulders  showing  nacreous  against  the  dead-white  of  the 
pillow.  Mrs.  Beatup  was  stunned,  her  mind  slowly  ad- 
justing itself  to  the  revelation  that  there  was  in  war 
another  tragedy  besides  the  tragedy  of  those  who  do  not 
come  back — and  that  is  the  tragedy  of  some  who  do. 


The  dipping  sun  slanted  over  the  fields  from  Stilliands 
Tower,  and  made  Tom  Beatup's  khaki  like  a  knight's 
golden  armour  as  he  trudged  home.  The  sky  was  a 
spread  pool  of  blue,  full  of  light  like  water,  and  moss- 
green  in  the  east  where  it  dipped  towards  the  woods  of 
Senlac.  Soft  whorls  of  dust  bowled  down  the  lane  be- 
fore a  fluttering,  racing  wind,  that  smelled  of  prim- 
roses and  rainy  grass. 

Tom  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  well-being  as  he  stopped 
to  light  his  pipe.  To-morrow  he  would  have  left  these 
sun-swamped  sorrowless  fields  and  be  back  in  the  country 


BABY  261 

where  the  earth  was  torn  and  gutted  as  if  by  an  earth- 
quake, all  scabbed  and  leprous  as  if  diseased  with  the 
putrefaction  of  its  million  dead — where  the  air  rocked 
with  crashes,  roars,  rumbles,  whizzes,  caterwaulings,  and 
reeked  with  flowing  stenches  of  dead  bodies,  blood,  and 
hideous  chemicals — where  any  thornbush  might  conceal  a 
sight  of  horror  to  freeze  heart  and  eyeballs  .  .  .  and 
yet  he  could  put  the  dread  of  it  out  of  his  mind,  and 
smile  contentedly,  and  blink  his  eyes  in  the  sun. 

A  few  yards  down  the  street  his  cottage  showed  its 
little  misted  shape,  while  its  windows  shone  like  garnets 
in  the  western  radiance,  and  a  tall  column  of  wood-smoke 
rose  behind  it,  blowing  and  bowing  in  the  adventurous 
wind,  which  brought  him  snatches  of  its  perfume,  with 
the  sweetness  of  wet  banks  and  primroses  and  budding 
apple-boughs.  .  .  .  He  knew  that  in  the  shop  door  Thyrza 
stood  with  the  baby  in  her  arms;  she  would  be  waiting 
for  him  there  with  the  sunshine  swimming  over  her  white 
apron  and  purple  gown,  making  the  downy  fluff  on  little 
Will's  head  to  shine  yellow  as  a  duckling's  feathers.  The 
thought  of  wife  and  child  was  not  cankered  by  the  dread 
that  he  might  never  see  them  again.  The  parting  when 
it  came  would  be  terrible — he  might  break  down  over  it, 
as  he  had  broken  down  before — but  he  had  all  a  soldier's 
solid  fatalism  and  scorn  of  the  future,  and  was,  perhaps, 
strengthened  by  the  inarticulate  knowledge  that  if  he  were 
to  die  to-morrow  he  died  a  man  complete.  From  the 
lumbering,  unawakened  lad  of  two  years  ago  he  had 
come  to  a  perfect  manhood,  to  be  a  husband  and  father, 
fulfilling  himself  in  a  simple,  natural  way,  with  a  quick- 
ness and  richness  which  could  never  have  been  if  the  war 
had  not  seized  him  and  forced  him  out  of  his  old  groove 
into  its  adventurous  paths.  If  he  died,  the  war  would  but 
have  taken  away  what  it  had  given — a  man ;  for  through 
it  he  had  in  a  short  time  fulfilled  a  long  time,  and  at 


262  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

twenty-two  could  die  in  the  old  age  of  a  complete,  un- 
spotted life. 

He  passed  under  the  sign  of  the  Rifle  Volunteer,  strad- 
dling the  road  in  his  green  uniform,  with  his  rifle  and  pot 
of  beer — "  Queer  old  perisher,"  thought  Tom,  looking 
up  at  him — "  I  shudn't  like  to  go  over  the  top  in  that  rig." 

The  Rifle  Volunteer  creaked  noisily  on  his  sign,  as  if 
the  soldier  of  bygone  years  challenged  the  soldier  of 
to-day. 

"  I  am  the  man  armed  for  the  War  That  Never  Was, 
who  marched  and  drilled  and  camped  to  fight  the  French, 
who  never  came.  And  you  are  the  man  unarmed  for  the 
War  That  Had  To  Be,  who  never  drilled  or  marched  or 
camped  to  fight  the  Germans,  who  came  and  nearly  drove 
you  off  the  earth." 

"  Reckon  he'd  have  bin  most  use  a  hunderd  mile 
away,"  scoffed  Tom. 

"  I  went  of  my  free-will  and  you  because  you  were 
fetched,"  said  the  Rifle  Volunteer.  "  Two  years  ago  I 
saw  you  walking  down  this  road  under  my  patriotic  legs, 
a  wretched,  drag-heel  conscript." 

"  He  never  fought  in  any  war  that  I  know  of,"  thought 
Tom,  "  and  yit  I  reckon  thur  used  to  be  wars  in  these 
parts  in  the  oald  days.  Minister  says  the  country's  full 
of  thur  naums.  I  doan't  know  naun,  surelye." 

The  east  wind  blew  from  Senlac,  sweet  with  the  scent 
of  the  ash-trees  growing  on  the  barrow  where  Saxon  and 
Norman  lay  tumbled  together  in  the  brotherhood  of 
sleep. 

"  Here — when  a  great  whinny  moor  rolled  down  from 
Anderida  to  the  sea,  and  Pevens  Isle  and  Horse  Isle  were 
green  in  the  bight  of  the  bay,  and  the  family  of  the 
Heastings  had  finished  building  their  ham  by  the  coast 
— here  used  to  be  the  Lake  of  Blood,  where  hearts  were 
drowned.  A  red  tun  stands  on  it  now,  and  good  folk 


BABY  263 

come  to  it  on  market-days.  Thus  shall  it  be  with  all  wars 
— out  of  the  red  blood  the  red  town,  and  under  the  green 
barrows  friend  and  foe,  tumbled  together  in  the  brother- 
hood of  sleep." 

The  east  wind  like  a  Saxon  ghost  whistled  against 
Tom's  neck. 

"  We  fought  as  you  did  once — we  hated  the  Norman 
as  you  hate  the  German,  yet  look  how  peacefully  we  sleep 
together." 

"  They  must  have  been  funny,"  thought  Tom,  "  those 
oald  wars  wud  bows  and  arrows." 

"  Harold !  Harold !  .  .  .  Rollo !  Rollo !  "  cried  the 
ghosts  on  the  east  wind  from  Senlac. 

"  God  save  the  Queen,"  said  the  Rifle  Volunteer. 


PART  VII:       MR.  SUMPTION 


IT  was  early  in  April.    A  soft  fleck  of  clouds  lay  over 
the  sky,  so  thin,  so  rifted,  that  the  sinking  lights 
of  afternoon  bloomed  their  hollows  with  cowslip.    A 
misty  warmth  hung  over  the  fields,  drawing  up  the  per- 
fume of  violets  and  harrowed  earth,  of  the  soft  clay-mud 
of  the  lanes,  not  yet  dry  after  a  shower  and  with  puddles 
lying  in  the  ruts  like  yellow  milk. 

Sunday  Street  was  in  stillness,  like  a  village  in  a 
dream.  Thin  spines  of  wook-smoke  rose  from  its  chim- 
neys, blue  against  the  grey  dapple  of  the  clouds.  The 
chink  of  a  hammer  came  from  the  Forge,  but  so  muffled, 
so  rhythmic  that  it  seemed  part  of  the  silence.  The 
watery  atmosphere  intensified  that  effect  of  dream  and 
illusion  which  the  village  had  that  evening.  Through  it 
the  cottages  and  farms  showed  with  a  watery  clear- 
ness and  at  the  same  time  a  strange  air  of  distance  and 
unreality.  There  was  flooding  light,  yet  no  sunshine, 
distinctness  of  every  line  in  eaves  and  tiling,  of  every 
daffodil  and  primrose  in  garden-borders,  and  yet  that 
peculiar  sense  as  of  something  far  away,  intangible,  a 
mirage  painted  on  a  cloud.  It  was  thus  that  the  vision 
of  his  home  might  rise  before  the  stretched,  abnormal 
sight  of  a  dying  man,  a  simulacrum,  a  fetch.  .  .  . 

Thyrza  Beatup  sat  beside  the  willow  pond  at  the  corner 
of  the  Street,  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  In  her  arms 
she  held  her  baby,  asleep  in  a  shawl.  She  felt  warm  and 
content  and  rather  sleepy.  In  her  pocket  was  Tom's  last 

264 


MR.  SUMPTION  265 

letter  from  France,  but  she  did  not  read  it,  for  she  knew 
it  by  heart  .  .  .  "  I  think  of  you  always,  you  dear  little 
creature,  you  and  baby — even  when  my  mind  is  full  of 
the  things  out  here,  and  this  great  battle  which  is  seem- 
ingly the  biggest  there's  ever  been."  ..."  How  I  wonder 
when  I'll  get  another  leave.  I  reckon  baby  ull  have 
grown  a  bit  and  you'll  be  just  the  same."  .  .  .  "  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  I  can  see  your  face ;  reckon  I  love  you  more 
every  time  I  think  of  you,  and  I  think  of  you  day  and 
night,  so  you  can  guess  all  the  love  that  makes."  .  .  . 
Tender  phrases  floated  in  and  out  of  her  mind,  and  then 
she  smiled  as  she  remembered  a  funny  story  Tom  had 
told  her  about  a  chap  in  the  A.S.C.  .  .  . 

She  drew  the  baby  closer  into  her  arms,  looking  down 
at  his  little  sleeping  face,  which  she  thought  was  grow- 
ing more  and  more  like  Tom's.  She  drooped  her  eye- 
lids and  in  the  mist  of  her  lashes  half  seemed  to  see 
Tom's  face  there  in  the  crook  of  her  elbow,  where  it  had 
so  often  been,  turning  towards  her  breast.  Poor  Tom! 
his  head  was  not  so  softly  pillowed  these  nights  .  .  . 
and  as  suddenly  she  pictured  him  lying  on  the  bare,  foul 
ground,  his  head  on  his  haversack,  his  cheeks  unshaved, 
his  body  verminous,  his  limbs  all  aching  with  cold  and 
stiffness — he,  her  man,  her  darling,  whom  she  would 
have  had  rest  so  sweetly  and  so  cleanly,  with  nothing  but 
sweetness  and  comfort  for  the  body  that  she  loved — then 
a  sudden  flame  of  rebellion  blazed  up  in  her  heart,  and 
its  simplicity  was  scarred  with  questions — Why  was  this 
terrible  War  allowed  to  be?  How  was  it  that  women 
could  let  their  men  go  to  endure  its  horrors?  Did  anyone 
in  England  ever  yet  know  what  it  was  these  boys  had 
to  suffer?  Oh,  stop  it,  stop  it!  for  the  sake  of  the  boys 
out  there,  and  for  the  boys  who  have  still  to  go  ... 
save  at  least  a  few  straight  limbs,  a  few  unbroken  hearts. 

She  clenched  her  hands,  and  little  Will  moaned  against 


266  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

her  breast,  and  as  she  felt  his  little  fists  beating  against 
her,  the  hard  mood  softened,  and  she  bent  over  him  with 
soothing  words  and  caresses — words  of  comfort  for  her- 
self as  well  as  for  her  child. 

"  Don't  cry,  liddle  Will — daddy  ull  come  back — daddy's 
thinking  of  us.  He's  out  there  so  that  you  ull  never  have 
to  go;  he  bears  all  that  so  that  you  may  never  have  to 
bear  it." 

A  thick  grape  red  had  trickled  into  the  west  like  a  spill 
of  wine.  The  afternoon  had  suddenly  crimsoned  into  the 
evening,  and  ruddy  lights  came  slanting  over  the  fields, 
deepening,  reddening,  so  that  the  willows  were  like 
flames,  and  the  willow  pond  was  like  a  lake  of  blood. 
.  .  .  The  night  wind  rose,  and  Thyrza  shivered. 

"  We  mun  be  gitting  hoame,  surelye,"  and  she  stood 
up,  pulling  the  shawl  over  the  baby's  face. 

At  the  same  time  her  heart  was  full  of  peace.  The 
questioning  mood  had  passed,  and  had  given  place  to 
one  single  deep  assurance  of  her  husband's  love.  Tom's 
love  seemed  to  go  with  her  into  the  house,  to  be  with 
her  as  she  bathed  Will  and  put  him  to  bed,  to  drive 
away  her  brooding  thoughts  when,  later  on,  she  sat 
alone  in  the  lamplight  at  her  supper.  She  sang  to  her- 
self as  she  put  away  the  supper,  a  silly  old  song  of  Tom's 
when  he  first  joined  up : 

"  The  bells  of  hell  go  ring-aling-aling 

For  you,  but  not  for  me ; 
For  me  the  angels  sing-aling-aling, 

They've  got  the  goods  for  me. 
O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting-aling-aling? 

Where,  grave,  thy  victory? 
The  bells  of  hell  go  ring-aling-aling 

For  you,  but  not  for  me." 

Now  that  darkness  had  fallen,  the  clouds  had  rolled 
away  from  the  big  stars  blinking  in  the  far-off  peace. 


MR.  SUMPTION  267 

A  soft,  sweet-smelling  cold  was  in  the  house,  the  emana- 
tion of  the  damp  mould  of  the  garden,  where  hyacinths 
bathed  their  purples  and  yellows  in  the  white  flood  of 
the  moon — of  the  twinkling  night  air,  cold  and  clear  as 
water — of  the  fields  with  their  brown  moist  ribs  and 
clumps  of  violets. 

Thyrza's  room  was  full  of  light,  for  the  westering 
moon  hung  over  Starnash  like  a  sickle,  and  the  fields 
showed  grey  against  their  hedges  and  the  huddled  woods. 
She  undressed  without  a  candle,  so  bright  was  the  moon- 
dazzle  on  her  window,  and  after  saying  her  prayers 
climbed  into  bed,  where  little  Will  now  lay  in  his 
father's  place.  Once  more  she  tried  to  picture  that  his 
head  was  Tom's,  and  that  her  husband  lay  beside  her, 
while  Will  slept  in  his  cradle,  as  he  had  slept  when  Tom 
was  at  home.  But  the  illusion  faltered — Will  was  so 
small,  and  Tom  was  so  big  in  spite  of  his  stockiness,  and 
took  up  so  much  more  room,  making  the  mattress  cant 
under  him,  whereas  Will  lay  on  it  as  lightly  as  a  kitten. 
However,  she  did  not  badly  need  the  comfort  of  make- 
believe,  for  her  sense  of  Tom's  love  was  so  real,  so  in- 
tense, and  so  sweet,  that  it  filled  all  the  empty  corners  of 
her  heart,  making  her  forget  the  empty  corners  of  her 
bed.  She  lay  with  one  arm  flung  out  towards  the  baby, 
the  other  curved  against  her  side,  while  her  hair  spread 
over  the  pillow  like  a  bed  of  celandines,  and  the  moon- 
light drew  in  soft  gleams  and  shadows  the  outlines  of  her 
breast. 

She  lay  very  still — nearly  as  still  as  Tom  was  lying  in 
the  light  of  the  same  moon.  .  .  .  But  not  quite  so  still, 
for  the  stillness  of  the  living  is  never  so  perfect,  so 
untroubled  as  the  stillness  of  the  dead. 


268  THE  FOUR  ROADS 


Worge  knew  nearly  as  soon  as  the  Shop,  for  Nell, 
running  down  after  breakfast  to  buy  tobacco  for  her 
father,  found  the  blinds  still  drawn.  The  door  was 
unlocked,  however,  so  she  went  in  and  called  her  sister- 
in-law.  There  was  no  answer,  and,  vaguely  alarmed, 
she  went  upstairs,  to  find  Thyrza  sitting  on  the  unmade 
bed,  still  wearing  the  print  wrapper  she  had  slipped  on 
when  the  shop-bell  rang  during  her  dressing. 

"  I  must  go  and  tell  his  mother,"  she  kept  repeating, 
when  Nell  had  read  the  telegram,  and  had  set  about,  with 
true  female  instinct,  to  make  her  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  Don't  you  worry  over  that,  dear — I'll  tell  her." 

"  Reckon  he'd  sooner  I  did." 

"  No — no ;  it  would  be  such  a  strain  for  you.  I'll  go 
when  I've  made  your  tea." 

At  that  moment  little  Will  woke  up,  and  cried  for  his 
breakfast — his  mother  had  forgotten  him  for  the  first 
time  since  he  was  born.  Nell  welcomed  the  distraction, 
though  her  heart  tightened  as  she  saw  Thyrza's  arms 
sweep  to  the  child,  and  quiver  while  she  held  him  with 
his  little  cool  tear-dabbled  cheek  against  her  own  so  tear- 
less and  so  dry.  Nell  left  her  with  the  boy  at  her 
breast,  a  big  yellow  hank  of  hair  adrift  upon  her  shoul- 
der, and  her  eyes  staring  from  under  the  tangle,  fixed, 
strangely  dark,  strangely  bright,  as  if  their  grief  were 
both  a  shadow  and  an  illumination. 

She  herself  ran  back  on  her  self-inflicted  errand,  all 
her  being  merged  into  the  one  pain  of  knowing  that  in 
ten  minutes  she  would  have  turned  a  jogging  peace  to 
bitterness,  and  bankrupted  her  mother's  life  of  its  chief 
treasure.  She  saw  herself  as  a  flame  leaping  from  one 
burning  house  to  set  another  light. 

Mrs.  Beatup's  reception  of  the  news  held  both  the 
expected  and  the  unexpected. 


MR.  SUMPTION  269 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  said  stonily—"  I  felt  it — I  felt  it  in 
my  boans.  And  I  toald  him,  too — I  told  him,  poor  soul, 
as  he'd  never  come  back,  and  now  he'll  never  come, 
surelye."  Then  she  said  suddenly — "  I  mun  go  to  her." 

"  Go  to  whom,  mother  dear?  " 

"  Thyrza.  He'd  want  it  ...  and  reckon  she  feels  it 
even  wuss  than  me." 

Nothing  could  dissuade  her,  and  off  she  went,  to 
comfort  the  woman  with  whom  she  had  so  long  played 
tug-of-war  for  her  son. 

Nell  stayed  behind  in  the  dreary  house,  where  it  seemed 
as  if  things  slunk  and  crept.  It  was  holiday-time,  so 
Zacky  was  at  home,  sobbing  in  a  corner  of  the  haystack, 
crying  on  and  on  monotonously  till  he  scarcely  knew  what 
he  cried  for,  then  suddenly  charmed  out  of  his  grief  by  a 
big  rat  that  popped  out  of  the  straw  and  ran  across  his 
legs.  Elphick  and  Juglery  mumbled  and  grumbled  to- 
gether in  the  barn,  and  talked  of  the  shame  of  a  yeoman 
dying  out  of  his  bed,  and  cast  deprecating  eyes  on  the 
indecency  of  Harry,  dark  against  the  sky  on  the  ribbed 
swell  of  the  Street  field,  making  his  late  sowings  with 
the  new  boy  at  his  heels.  Up  and  down  the  furrows  went 
Harry,  with  his  head  hung  low,  in  his  ears  the  mutter  of 
the  guns,  so  faint  on  the  windless  April  noon  that  he 
sometimes  thought  they  were  just  the  sorrowful  beating 
of  his  own  heart — up  and  down,  scattering  seed  into  the 
earth,  leaving  his  token  of  life  in  the  fields  he  loved  be- 
fore he  was  himself  taken  up  and  cast,  vital  and  insignifi- 
cant as  a  seed,  into  the  furrows  of  Aceldama  or  the 
Field  of  Blood.  .  .  . 

Mus'  Beatup  sat  crouched  over  the  fire,  the  tears  every 
now  and  then  welling  up  in  his  eyes,  and  sometimes  over- 
flowing on  his  cheeks,  whence  he  wiped  them  away  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.  "  Tis  enough  to  maake  a  man 
taake  to  drink,"  he  muttered  to  himself — "  this  is  wot 


270  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

drives  men  to  drink,  surelye."  Every  now  and  then  he 
looked  up  at  the  clock. 

The  clock  struck  twelve,  and  the  Rifle  Volunteer  called 
over  the  fields : 

"  Come,  farmer,  and  have  a  pot  with  me.  You've  lost 
a  son  in  your  War — there  were  no  sons  lost  in  mine,  but 
pots  of  beer  are  good  for  joy  or  sorrow.  Come  and 
forget  that  boy  for  five  minutes,  how  he  looked  and  what 
he  said  to  you,  forget  this  War  through  which  good  yeo- 
men die  out  of  their  beds,  and  drink  with  the  Volunteer, 
who  drilled  and  marched  and  camped  and  did  every  other 
warlike  thing  save  fighting,  and  died  between  his  sheets." 

Mus'  Beatup  groped  for  his  stick.  Then  he  shook  his 
head  rather  sadly.  "  The  boy's  scarce  cold  in  his  grave. 
Reckon  I  mun  wait  a  day  or  two  before  I  disremember 
his  last  words  to  me." 

Mrs.  Beatup  did  not  come  home  till  after  supper,  and 
went  to  bed  almost  at  once.  She  felt  fagged  and  tottery, 
and  there  was  a  shrivelled,  fallen  look  about  her  face. 
When  she  was  in  bed,  she  could  not  sleep,  but  lay  watch- 
ing the  moon  travel  across  the  room,  lighting  first  the 
mirror,  then  the  wall,  then  her  own  head,  then  maaster's, 
then  climbing  away  up  the  chimney  like  a  ghost.  Every 
now  and  then  she  fell  into  a  little,  light  dose,  so  thridden 
with  dreams  that  it  was  scarcely  sleeping. 

In  these  dreams  Tom  was  always  a  child,  in  her  arms, 
or  at  her  feet,  or  spannelling  about  after  the  manner  of 
small  boys  with  tops  and  string.  She  did  not  dream  of 
him  as  grown,  and  this  was  the  basis  of  her  new  agree- 
ment with  Thyrza.  Thyrza  could  never  think  of  him 
as  a  child,  for  she  had  never  seen  him  younger  than 
eighteen ;  all  her  memories  were  concentrated  in  his  few 
short  years  of  manhood,  and  his  childhood  belonged  to 
his  mother.  So  his  mother  and  his  wife  divided  his 
memory  up  between  them,  and  each  thought  she  had  the 
better  part. 


MR.  SUMPTION  271 

Mrs.  Beatup  wondered  if  anyone — Bill  Putland  or 
Mus'  Archie — would  write  and  tell  her  about  Tom's  end. 
So  far  she  had  no  idea  how  he  had  died,  and  her  imagina- 
tion crept  tearfully  round  him,  asking  little  piteous  ques- 
tions of  the  darkness — Had  he  suffered  much?  Had  he 
asked  for  her  ?  Had  he  wanted  her  ? — Oh,  reckon  he  had 
wanted  her,  and  she  had  not  been  there,  she  had  not 
known  that  he  was  dying,  she  had  been  pottering  round 
after  her  household,  cooking  and  washing  up  and  sweep- 
ing and  dusting,  and  thinking  of  him  as  alive  and  well, 
while  all  the  time  he  was  perhaps  crying  out  for  her  in 
the  mud  of  No  Man's  Land.  .  .  . 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  in  the  darkness  that 
followed  the  setting  of  the  moon.  Was  it  for  this  that 
she  had  borne  him  in  hope  and  anguish? — that  he  should 
die  alone,  away  from  her,  like  a  dog,  in  the  mud?  .  .  . 
She  saw  the  mud,  he  had  so  often  told  her  of  it,  she  saw 
it  sucking  and  oozing  round  him  like  the  mud  outside  the 
cowhouse  door ;  she  saw  the  milky  puddles  .  .  .  she  saw 
them  grow  dark  and  streaked  with  blood.  Then,  just  as 
her  heart  was  breaking,  she  pictured  him  in  the  bare  clean 
ward  of  a  hospital,  as  she  had  seen  him  at  Eastbourne, 
with  a  kind  nurse  to  relieve  his  last  pain  and  take  down 
his  last  little  messages.  Oh,  someone  was  sure  to  write 
to  Tom's  mother  and  tell  her  how  he  had  died,  and  per- 
haps send  her  a  message  from  him. 

The  daylight  crept  into  the  room,  stabbing  like  a  finger 
under  the  blind,  and  with  it  her  restlessness  increased. 
Then  a  pool  of  sunshine  gleamed  at  the  side  of  the  bed. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  lie  any  longer,  so  climbed 
out  slowly  from  under  the  blankets.  She  tried  not  to 
disturb  her  husband,  but  she  was  too  unwieldy  for  a 
noiseless  rising,  and  she  heard  him  turn  over  and  mutter, 
asking  her  what  she  meant  by  "  waaking  a  man  to  his 
trouble  " — then  falling  asleep  again. 


272  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

She  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  to  find  Harry,  his  eyes 
big  and  blurred  with  sleep,  just  going  to  set  about  his 
business  in  the  yard.  Moved  by  a  quake  of  tenderness 
for  this  surviving  son,  she  made  him  a  cup  of  cocoa,  and 
insisted  on  his  drinking  it  before  he  went  out  to  work. 
Then  she  did  her  own  scrubbing  with  more  care  than 
usual — "  Reckon  we  must  kip  the  farm  up,  now  he's 
agone."  Urged  by  the  same  thought  she  went  out  to 
the  Dutch  barn  and  mixed  the  chicken  food,  then  opened 
the  hen-houses,  feeling  in  the  warm  nests  for  eggs. 

By  now  the  sun  was  high,  a  big  blazing  pan  slop- 
ping fire  over  the  roofs  and  into  the  ponds.  The  air  was 
full  of  sounds — Growings,  cacklings,  duckings,  the  scurry 
of  fowls,  the  stamping  of  horses,  and  then  the  whining 
hiss  of  milk  into  zinc  pails.  Hoqfs  thudded  in  the  lane, 
the  call  of  a  girl  came  from  a  distant  field,  all  the  country 
of  the  Four  Roads  was  waking  to  life  and  work,  faltering 
no  more  than  light  and  darkness  because  one  of  its  sons 
had  died  for  the  fields  he  used  to  plough.  Wheels 
crunched  in  the  drive,  and  then  came  the  postman's  knock. 
Mrs.  Beatup  put  down  her  trug  of  meal,  and  waddled  off 
towards  the  house  .  .  .  perhaps  a  letter  had  come  about 
Tom ;  it  was  rather  early  yet,  still,  perhaps  it  had  come. 

But  Harry  had  already  been  to  the  door,  and  shook  his 
head  when  she  asked  if  there  was  anything  for  her. 

"  Thur's  naun." 

"  Naun  fur  none  of  us?  " 

"  Only  fur  me." 

She  saw  that  he  was  carrying  a  long,  official-looking 
envelope,  and  that  his  hand  was  clenched  round  it,  as  if 
he  held  a  knife. 

"Wot's  that?" 

"  My  calling-up  paapers." 


MR.  SUMPTION  273 


Tom  was  not  the  only  local  casualty  that  week. 
Bourner  heard  of  the  death  of  his  eldest  son,  a  youth 
who  had  somehow  squeezed  himself  out  to  the  front  at 
the  age  of  seventeen;  the  baker  at  Bodle  Street  lost  his 
lad,  Stacey  Collbran  of  Satanstown  had  died  of  wounds, 
and  the  late  postman  at  Brownbread  Street  was  reported 
missing.  All  these  had  been  struck  down  together  on 
the  ravaged  hills  round  Wytschaete,  where  the  Eighteenth 
Sussex  had  for  long  hours  held  a  trench  which  the 
German  guns  had  pounded  to  a  furrow.  In  this  furrow 
the  body  of  Tom  Beatup  lay  with  the  bodies  of  other 
Sussex  chaps,  hostages  to  shattered  Flanders  earth  for 
the  inviolate  Sussex  fields. 

Mrs.  Beatup  heard  about  it  from  Mus'  Archie,  who 
wrote,  as  she  had  expected,  while  Bill  Putland  wrote  to 
Thyrza.  Tom  had  been  shot  through  the  head.  His 
death  must  have  been  painless  and  instantaneous,  the 
Lieutenant  told  his  mother.  Then  he  went  on  to  say  how 
much  they  had  all  liked  Tom  in  the  platoon,  how  popular 
he  had  been  with  the  men  and  how  the  officers  had  appre- 
ciated his  unfailing  good-humour  and  reliableness.  "  All 
soldiers  grumble,  as  you  probably  know,  but  I  never  met 
one  who  grumbled  less  than  Beatup ;  and  you  could 
always  depend  on  him  to  do  what  was  wanted.  We  shall 
all  miss  him  more  than  I  can  say,  but  he  died  bravely  in 
open  battle,  and  we  all  feel  very  proud  of  him." 

"  Proud  " — that  was  the  word  they  were  all  throwing 
at  her  now :  Mus'  Archie,  the  curate,  even  the  minister. 
They  said,  "  You  must  be  very  proud  of  Tom,"  just  as 
if  all  the  age-old  instincts  of  her  breed  did  not  generate 
a  feeling  of  shame  for  one  who  died  out  of  his  bed.  Good 
yeomen  died  between  their  sheets,  and  her  son  had  died 
out  in  the  mud,  like  a  sheep  or  a  dog — and  yet  she  must 
be  proud  of  him ! 


274  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Thyrza  was  proud — she  said  as  much  between  her 
tears.  She  said  that  Tom  had  died  like  a  hero,  righting 
for  his  wife  and  his  child. 

"  He  died  for  England,"  said  Mr.  Poullett-Smith. 

"  He  died  for  Sunday  Street,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sump- 
tion. "  I  reckon  that  as  his  eyestrings  cracked  he  saw  the 
corner  by  the  Forge  and  the  oasts  of  Egypt  Farm." 

It  appeared  that  Tom  had  died  for  a  great  many  things, 
but  in  her  heart  Mrs.  Beatup  guessed  that  it  was  really 
a  very  little  thing  that  he  had  died  for — 

"  Reckon  all  he  saw  then  wur  our  faaces,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

As  there  had  been  so  many  local  deaths,  both  now  and 
during  the  winter,  it  struck  the  curate  to  hold  a  memorial 
service  in  the  church  at  Brownbread  Street.  He  knew 
how  the  absence  of  a  funeral,  of  any  possibility  of  paying 
mortuary  honour  to  the  loved  ones,  would  add  to  the  grief 
of  those  left  behind.  So  he  hastily  summoned  a  pro- 
testing and  bewildered  choir  to  practise  Sterna  Christi 
M uner a,  and  announced  a  requiem  for  the  following 
Friday. 

Mr.  Sumption  saw  in  this  one  more  attempt  of  the 
church  to  "  get  the  pull  over  him,"  and  resolved  to  con- 
test the  advantage.  He  too  would  have  a  memorial 
service,  conducted  on  godly  Calvinistic  lines  ;  there  should 
be  no  Popish  prayers  for  the  dead  or  vain  confidence  in 
their  eternal  welfare,  just  a  sober  recollection  before  God 
and  preparation  for  judgment. 

It  was  perhaps  a  tacit  confession  of  weakness  that  Mr. 
Sumption  did  not  offer  this  attraction  as  a  rival  to  the 
Church  service,  but  planned  to  have  it  later  in  the  same 
day,  so  that  those  with  a  funeral  appetite  could  attend 
both.  Experience  had  taught  him  that  what  he  had  to 
depend  on  was  not  so  much  his  flock's  conviction  as  their 
lack  of  conviction.  The  Particular  Baptists  in  Sunday 


MR.  SUMPTION  275 

Street,  those,  that  is  to  say,  who  for  conscience'  sake 
would  never  worship  outside  the  Bethel,  would  not  fill 
two  pews.  He  depended  for  the  rest  of  his  congregation 
on  the  straying  sheep  of  Ecclesia  Anglicana,  of  the  Wes- 
leyans,  Primitive  Methodists,  Ebenezers,  Bible  Christians, 
Congregationalists,  and  other  sects  that  stuck  tin  roofs 
about  the  parish  fields. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  now  was  his  great 
chance  to  scatter  the  rival  shepherds,  so  made  his  prepa- 
rations with  elaborate  care,  boldly  facing  the  handicaps 
his  conscience  imposed  by  forbidding  him  to  use  decora- 
tions, anthems,  or  instrumental  music.  He  even  had  a 
few  handbills  printed  at  his  own  expense,  and  canvassed  a 
hopeful  popularity  by  rightly  diagnosing  the  complaint 
of  some  sick  ewes  belonging  to  Mus'  Putland. 


On  Thursday  evening  he  sat  in  his  room  at  the  Horse- 
lunges,  preparing  his  sermon.  Of  course  his  sermons 
were  not  written,  but  he  took  great  pains  with  their 
preparation  under  heads  and  points.  He  felt  that  this 
occasion  demanded  a  special  effort,  and  it  was  unfortu- 
nate that  he  felt  all  muddled  and  crooked,  his  thoughts 
continually  springing  away  from  their  discipline  of 
heads  and  racing  off  on  queer  adventures,  scarcely  agree- 
able to  Calvinistic  theology. 

He  thought  of  those  dead  boys,  some  of  whom  he  knew 
well  and  others  whom  he  knew  but  slightly,  and  he  pic- 
tured them  made  perfect  by  suffering,  buying  themselves 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  by  their  blood.  He  knew  that 
his  creed  gave  him  no  right  to  do  so — Christ  died  for  the 
elect,  and  no  man  can  squeeze  his  way  into  salvation  by 
wounds  and  blood.  And  yet  these  boys  were  crucified 
with  Christ.  .  .  .  He  saw  all  the  crosses  of  Flanders,  a 
million  graves.  .  .  .  Perhaps  there  was  a  back  way  to 


276  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

the  Kingdom,  a  path  of  pain  and  sacrifice  by  which  sin- 
ners won  the  gate.  .  .  . 

He  rebuked  himself,  and  bent  again  to  his  work.  The 
setting  sun  poured  in  from  the  west,  making  the  little 
room,  with  its  faded,  peeling  walls,  and  mangy  furniture, 
a  tub  of  swimming  light.  Mr.  Sumption  had  got  down 
to  his  Fourthly  when  his  thoughts  went  off  again,  and 
this  time  after  a  boy  who  was  not  dead.  It  was  a  couple 
of  months  since  he  had  heard  from  Jerry,  and  the  letter 
had  been  unsatisfactory,  though  by  this  time  he  should 
have  learned  not  to  expect  so  much  from  Jerry's  letters. 
He  lifted  his  head  from  the  paper  with  a  sigh,  and,  chin 
propped  on  hand,  gazed  out  of  the  window  to  where  bars 
of  heavy  crimson  cloud  reefed  the  blue  bay  of  light.  He 
remembered  an  evening  nearly  a  year  ago,  when  he  and 
Jerry  had  sat  by  the  window  of  a  poor  lodging-house 
room  in  Kemp  Town,  and  felt  nearer  to  each  other  than 
before  in  their  lives.  .  .  . 

"  Reckon  he  can't  help  it — reckon  he's  just  a  vessel  of 
wrath." 

He  bit  his  tongue  as  a  cure  for  weakness,  and  for 
another  ten  minutes  bobbed  and  fumed  over  his  notes. 
The  sermon  was  not  going  well.  He  had  taken  for  his 
text:  "Let  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  land  tremble:  for 
the  day  of  the  Lord  cometh,  for  it  is  nigh  at  hand;  a 
day  of  darkness  and  of  gloominess,  a  day  of  clouds  and 
of  thick  darkness,  as  the  morning  spread  upon  the  moun- 
tains." He  told  the  congregation  that  their  grief  for 
the  death  of  these  young  men  was  but  part  of  the  uni- 
versal woe,  a  spark  of  that  furnace  which  should  devour 
the  world.  Melting  together  in  Doomsday  fires  the  Book 
of  Revelation  and  the  Minor  Prophets,  he  pointed  out 
how  the  Scriptures  had  been  fulfilled  .  .  .  the  Beast, 
the  False  Prophet,  the  Army  from  the  North,  the  Star 
called  Wormwood,  the  Woman  on  Seven  Hills,  the  Vision 


MR.  SUMPTION  277 

of  Four  Horns,  the  Crowns  of  Joshua,  the  Flying  Roll, 
all  these  were  in  the  world  to-day,  Signs  in  the  rolling 
clouds  of  smoke  that  poured  from  the  burning  fiery  fur- 
nace, where  only  the  Children  of  God  could  walk  un- 
harmed. "  And  the  Sign  of  the  Son  of  Man  shall  be 
in  the  heavens.  ..." 

Here  it  was  that  again  his  thoughts  became  treach- 
erous to  his  theme.  Instead  of  the  Sign  of  the  Son  of 
Man  appearing  in  the  heavens,  he  seemed  to  see  it  rising 
out  of  the  earth,  the  crosses  on  the  million  graves  of 
Flanders.  Could  it  be  that  Christ  was  already  come? 
.  .  .  come  in  the  brave  and  patient  sufferings  of  boys, 
who  died  that  the  world  might  live  ?  .  .  .  "  It  is  expedient 
that  one  man  should  die  for  the  people."  He  drove  away 
the  thought  as  a  blasphemy,  and  stooped  once  more  to  his 
paper,  while  his  finger  rubbed  under  the  lines  of  his  big 
Bible  beside  him. 

"  Sixthly :  The  Crowns  of  Joshua.  Satan  at  his  right 
hand.  '  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  O  Satan.'  The  promise 
of  the  Branch.  The  promise  of  the  Temple.  But  all 
must  first  be  utterly  destroyed.  '  I  will  utterly  consume 
all  things,  saith  the  Lord.'  Don't  think  the  War  will  end 
before  everything  is  destroyed.  '  That  day  is  a  day  of 
wrath,  a  day  of  trouble  and  distress,  a  day  of  wasteness 
and  desolation,  a  day  of  darkness  and  gloominess,  a  day 
of  clouds  and  thick  darkness.'  The  hope  of  the  Elect. 
'  I  will  bring  the  third  part  through  fire.'  ..." 

There  was  the  rattle  and  jar  of  crockery  outside  the 
door,  and  the  next  minute  Mrs.  Hubble  kicked  it  open, 
and  brought  in  the  minister's  supper  of  bread  and  cocoa. 
She  set  it  down,  ruthlessly  sweeping  aside  his  books  and 
paper,  and  then  took  a  telegram  out  of  her  apron  pocket. 

"  This  has  just  come,  and  the  girl's  waiting  for  an 
answer." 

Telegrams  came  only  on  one  errand  in  the  country  of 


278  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

the  Four  Roads,  and  Mrs.  Hubble  felt  sure  that  this  was 
to  announce  either  the  wounds  or  death  of  Jerry.  It  is 
true  that  he  might  be  coming  home  on  leave,  but  in  that 
case  she  reckoned  he  would  never  trouble  to  send  a  tele- 
gram— he  would  just  turn  up,  and  give  her  his  room  to 
sweep  and  his  bed  to  make  all  on  the  minute. 

She  narrowly  watched  the  minister  as  he  read  it — if  it 
brought  bad  news  she  would  like  to  be  able  to  give  the 
village  a  detailed  account  of  his  reception  of  it.  But  he 
made  no  sign — only  struck  her  for  the  first  time  as  look- 
ing rather  stupid.  It  was  queer  that  she  had  never 
noticed  before  what  a  heavy,  blunted  kind  of  face  he 
had. 

"Any  answer?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  put  the  telegram  face  down- 
wards on  the  tray.  Mrs.  Hubble  flounced  out  and  banged 
the  door. 

For  some  minutes  after  she  had  gone  Mr.  Sumption 
sat  motionless,  his  arm  dangling  at  his  sides,  his  eyes  fixed 
rather  vacantly  on  the  steam  rising  from  the  cocoa-jug. 
The  sun  had  dipped  behind  the  meadow-hills  of  Bird-in- 
Eye,  and  only  a  few  red,  fiery  rays  glowed  on  the  ceil- 
ing. Mr.  Sumption  picked  up  the  telegram  and  read  it 
again. 

"  Deeply  regret  to  inform  you  that  Private  J.  M. 
Sumption  kas  died  at  the  front." 

He  felt  weak,  boneless,  as  if  his  joints  had  been  smitten 
asunder.  Something  hot  and  heavy  seemed  to  press  down 
his  skull.  He  could  not  think,  and  yet  the  inhibition  was 
not  a  respite,  but  a  torment.  His  ears  sang.  Every  now 
and  then  he  tried  pitifully  to  collect  himself,  but  failed. 
Jerry  dead  .  .  .  Jerry  dead  .  .  .  then  suddenly  his  head 
fell  forward  on  his  hands,  and  he  began  to  cry,  first 
weakly,  then  stormily,  noisily,  his  whole  body  shaking. 

The  sobs  stopped  as  suddenly  as  they  had  begun,  but 


MR.  SUMPTION  279 

the  brain-pressure  had  been  relieved,  and  he  could  now 
think  a  little.  He  saw,  as  from  a  great  way  off,  himself 
before  the  telegram  came — he  saw  that  as  he  planned 
that  memorial  service,  prepared  that  elegiac  sermon,  there 
had  run  in  his  veins  a  fiery,  subtle  pride  that  he,  at  least, 
was  father  of  a  living  man.  He  had  not  seen  it  at  the 
time,  but  he  saw  it  now — now  that  his  pride  had  been 
trampled  and  he  himself  was  in  the  same  abyss  with  the 
souls  he  was  to  comfort.  He  too  was  father  of  the 
dead;  Jerry  was  dead — at  last  and  for  ever  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  help,  his  efforts,  even  his  prayers  .  .  .  the 
son  of  the  woman  from  Ihornden. 

The  room  was  almost  in  darkness  now;  fiery  lights 
moved  and  shifted,  and  by  their  glow  he  read  the  tele- 
gram over  again,  for  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  was 
always  a  sick,  insane  thought  that  he  must  be  mistaken, 
that  this  blow  could  not  have  fallen,  that  Jerry  must  still 
be  somewhere  alive  and  up  to  no  good.  But  the  message 
was  there,  and  now  on  this  third  reading,  he  noticed 
something  peculiar  about  the  phrasing  of  it — "  Private 
Sumption  has  died  at  the  front."  Surely  this  was  not  the 
usual  form  of  announcement.  He  had  seen  several  such 
messages  of  woe,  and  they  had  read  "  killed  in  action  " 
or  "  died  of  wounds."  He  had  never  seen  one  put  exactly 
like  this. 

However,  it  was  not  of  any  real  importance.  Jerry  was 
dead ;  that  was  the  only  vital,  necessary  fact.  But  he 
would  write  to  Mus'  Archie  for  particulars.  .  .  .  The 
lamp  was  on  the  table,  and  he  lit  it,  pushing  aside  the 
unused  supper-tray  and  the  littered  sermon-paper. 


He   wrote   on  into   the  night.     He    found   a   certain 
crookedness  in  his  ideas  which  made  him  tear  up  several 


280  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

efforts — he  once  even  found  himself  writing  to  Jerry, 
a  proceeding  which  struck  him  with  peculiar  horror. 
The  hours  ticked  on ;  the  big  constellations  swung 
solemnly  across  the  uncurtained  window  (luckily  Police- 
man was  in  bed,  and  did  not  see  the  lozenge  of  gold  lamp- 
light that  lay  in  Mrs.  Hubble's  backyard).  Inside  the 
room  the  cat  prowled  to  and  fro,  miaowling  to  be  let  out 
for  a  scamper  on  the  barn-roofs — at  last,  he  jumped  on 
the  table  and,  upsetting  the  cocoa,  lapped  his  fill  and 
retired  to  dignified  repose.  The  mice  tapped  on  the  glass 
front  of  their  cage  with  little  pink  hands  like  anemones. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Sumption  for  once  did  not  notice  his  animals ; 
he  sat  brooding  over  the  table  long  after  he  had  finished 
writing.  Then,  as  the  sky  was  fading  into  light,  and  big 
greyish-white  clouds  like  mushrooms  were  banking 
towards  the  east,  he  dropped  asleep,  his  head  fallen  over 
the  back  of  his  chair,  with  the  mouth  a  little  open,  his 
arms  hanging  at  his  sides. 

The  daylight  fought  with  the  lamplight,  and  as  with 
a  sudden  crimson  rift  it  won  the  victory,  Mr.  Sumption 
woke — from  dreams  full  of  the  roaring  of  a  forge  and  his 
own  arm  swung  above  his  head,  as  in  the  old  days  at 
Bethersden.  He  sat  for  a  few  moments  rubbing  his  eyes, 
feeling  very  stiff  and  cold.  Then  he  realised  that  he  was 
hungry.  The  supper-tray  was  still  before  him,  swimming 
in  cocoa.  He  ate  the  bread — dry,  because  the  minister 
was  one  of  those  greedy  souls  who  devour  their  week's 
ration  of  butter  in  the  first  three  days,  and  neither  jam 
nor  cheese  was  to  be  had  in  Sunday  Street,  even  if  he 
could  have  afforded  them.  When  he  had  eaten  all  the 
bread,  he  began  to  feel  thirsty.  He  longed  for  a  cup  of 
tea.  Overhead  in  the  attic  there  was  a  trampling,  which 
told  him  that  Mrs.  Hubble  would  soon  be  down  to  boil 
the  kettle.  He  hung  about  the  stairhead  till  she  appeared 
— shouting  back  at  her  father-in-law,  who  would  not  get 


MR.  SUMPTION  281 

up,  and  generally  in  a  bad  mood  for  her  lodger's  service. 

However,  to  his  surprise,  she  was  quite  obliging — he 
did  not  know  what  his  night  had  made  of  him.  She 
hurried  down  to  the  kitchen  to  light  the  fire,  and  bade 
him  come  too  and  warm  himself.  Mr.  Sumption  would 
have  preferred  to  be  alone,  but  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
very  cold,  and  a  kind  of  weakness  was  upon  him,  so  he 
came  and  sat  by  her  fire,  and  drank  gratefully  the  big, 
strong  cup  of  tea  she  gave  him. 

"  You've  had  bad  news  of  Mus'  Jerry,  I  reckon," 
said  Mrs.  Hubble. 

Mr.  Sumption  nodded,  and  warmed  his  hands  round 
the  cup.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  that  Jerry 
was  dead. 

"  This  is  a  tar'ble  war,"  continued  Mrs.  Hubble,  "  and 
I  reckon  those  are  best  off  wot  are  put  out  of  it " — this 
was  to  find  out  what  really  had  happened  to  Jerry.  "  I 
often  think,"  she  added  piously,  "  of  the  happy  lot  of  the 
dead — no  more  trouble,  no  more  pain,  no  more  worriting 
after  absent  friends,  no  more  standing  in  queues.  I  often 
think,  minister,  as  it's  a  pity  we  aun't  all  dead." 

"  Maybe,  maybe,"  said  Mr.  Sumption. 

He  rose  and  walked  restlessly  out  of  the  kitchen.  He 
both  wanted  companionship  and  yet  could  not  bear  it. 
When  would  the  day  end — the  day  that  streamed  and 
blew  and  shone  over  Jerry's  grave?  .  .  .  He  was  going 
upstairs,  when  he  heard  a  shuffle  of  paper  behind  him, 
and  saw  that  a  letter  had  been  pushed  under  the  door. 
The  post  came  early  to  Sunday  Street,  and  Mr.  Sumption 
ran  down  again,  full  of  an  eager,  futile  hope.  The  letter 
bore  the  familiar  field  postmark,  and  at  first  he  thought 
it  was  from  Jerry,  and  that  he  was  going  to  suffer  that 
rending,  ecstatic  agony  of  reading  letters  from  the  dead. 
But  as  he  picked  it  up  he  saw  that  the  writing  was  not 
Jerry's,  but  in  a  hand  he  did  not  know.  Whose  could  it 


282  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

be? — whosoever  it  was  must  be  writing  about  his  son. 
He  tore  it  open  as  he  went  up  to  his  room,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  the  folded  paper  saw,  "  Yours,  with  sincerest 
sympathy,  Archibald  Lamb." 

Of  course,  it  was  Mr.  Archie — writing  to  Jerry's  father 
as  he  had  written  to  Tom's  mother.  The  minister  had 
had  very  little  to  do  with  the  Squire,  except  on  one 
occasion,  when  he  had  met  him  riding  home  from  a  day's 
hunting,  on  a  badly-lamed  horse,  and  had  applied  a 
fomentation  which  Mr.  Archie  said  had  worked  a  won- 
derful cure.  Now  there  were  two  pages  covered  with 
his  big,  firm  handwriting.  Mr.  Sumption  pulled  them  out 
of  the  envelope,  and  from  between  them  a  grimy  piece  of 
paper  fell  to  the  ground,  scrawled  over  with  the  familiar 
smudge  of  indelible  pencil. 

Mr.  Sumption  grabbed  it,  letting  Mr.  Archie's  letter 
fall  in  its  stead.  As  he  began  to  read  it,  he  wondered  if 
it  had  been  found  on  Jerry's  body — it  was  certainly  more 
smeary  and  stained  than  usual.  After  he  had  read  a 
little,  he  sat  down  in  his  chair.  His  hand  shook,  and  he 
stooped  his  head  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  writing  as  if 
his  sight  were  failing  him. 

"  DEAR  FATHER, 

"  By  the  time  you  get  this  I  will  be  out  of  the  way 
of  troubling  you  any  more.  I  am  in  great  trouble.  Mr. 
Archie  said  perhaps  not  tell  you,  but  I  said  I  would 

rather  you  knew.     It  is  like  this.     I  kept  away  in 

last  time  we  went  up  to  the  trenches,  with  a  lady  friend, 
you  may  have  heard  of.  Beatup  says  he  told  you.  Well, 
I  am  to  be  shot  for  it.  I  was  court-martialled,  and  they 
said  to  be  shot.  Dear  Father,  this  will  make  you  very 
sorry,  but  it  cannot  be  helped,  and  I  am  not  worth  it. 
I  have  been  a  very  bad  son  to  you,  and  done  many  wicked 
things  besides.  Things  always  were  against  me.  Mr. 


MR.  SUMPTION  283 

Archie  has  been  very  kind,  and  so  has  the  pardry  here. 
Mr.  Archie  is  sitting  with  me  to-night,  and  he  says  he 
will  stay  all  night,  as  I  am  feeling  very  much  upset  at 
this  great  trouble.  I  am  leaving  you  my  ring  made  out 
of  a  piece  of  Zep  and  my  purse,  only  I  am  afraid  there 
is  no  money  in  it.  Please  remember  me  to  Ivy  Beatup, 
and  say  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  I  should  not  be  here 
now.  I  think  that  is  all. 

"  Ever  your  loving  son, 

"  JEREMIAH  MERIDIAN  SUMPTION. 

"  P.S. — The  pardry  says  Jesus  will  forgive  my  sins. 
Thank  you  very  much,  dear  father,  for  those  fags  you 
sent.  I  am  smoking  one  now." 


It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  later  that  Mr.  Sumption 
picked  up  Archie  Lamb's  letter.  It  caught  his  eye  at 
last  as  he  stared  at  the  floor,  and  he  picked  it  up  and 
unfolded  it.  Perhaps  it  would  give  him  a  grain  of 
comfort. 

The  lieutenant  afterwards  described  it  as  the  most 
sickening  job  he  had  ever  had  in  his  life.  The  usual 
letter  of  condolence  and  explanation,  such  as  he  had  over 
and  over  again  written  to  parents  and  wives,  became  an 
easy  task  compared  with  this.  Here  he  had  to  deal  not 
only  with  sorrow,  but  with  disgrace.  He  could  not  write, 
as  he  had  so  often  written,  "  We  are  proud  of  him." 
He  could  not  refer  back  with  congratulations  to  a  good 
record — Jerry  had  died  as  he  had  lived,  a  bad  soldier,  a 
disgrace  to  the  uniform  he  wore,  and  there  seemed  very 
little  that  could  be  decently  said  about  him. 

However,  the  innate  kind-heartedness  and  good  feeling 
of  the  young  officer  pulled  him  successfully  through  an 
ordeal  that  would  have  staggered  many  better  wits.  He 


284  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

began  by  explaining  his  reluctance,  and  that  he  was  writ- 
ing only  because  Jerry  wished  it — though,  perhaps,  it 
was  better,  after  all,  that  his  father  should  know  the 
truth.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  not  so  dreadful  as  it 
sounds.  Your  son  is  not  to  die  so  much  as  a  punishment 
as  a  warning.  The  shooting  of  deserters  is  chiefly  a 
deterrent — and  your  son  is  dying  so  that  other  men  may 
be  warned  by  his  fate  to  stick  to  the  ranks  and  do  their 
duty  as  soldiers ;  therefore  you  may  say  that,  indirectly, 
he  is  dying  for  his  country.  Moreover,  his  disappearance 
was  not  due  to  cowardice,  but  to  other  reasons  which  you 
probably  know  of.  I  don't  know  if  this  mitigates  it  to 
you,  it  certainly  does  to  me.  Sumption  is  not  a  coward. 
I  have  seen  him  in  action,  and  I  repeat  that  he  is  as 
plucky  as  any  one. 

"  I  am  sitting  with  him  now,  and  I  want  to  make  your 
mind  easy  about  the  end.  When  I  have  finished  writing 
this  he  will  be  given  his  supper,  food  and  a  hot  drink. 
Then  he  will  go  to  sleep.  He  will  be  roused  just  ten 
minutes  before  the  time,  and  hurried  off,  still  half-asleep 
— he  will  never  be  quite  awake.  There  will  be  no  awful 
apprehension  and  agony,  such  as  I  expect  you  imagine — 
please  don't  worry  about  that. 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  him  a  padre  of  his  own 
church,  but  a  very  good  Congregational  man  has  been 
with  him,  and  has,  of  course,  respected  your  convictions 
in  every  way. 

"  Now  before  I  end  up,  I  want  to  say  again  that  it 
isn't  really  as  bad  as  it  looks — the  disgrace,  I  mean. 
Think  of  your  son  as  having  died  so  that  other  men 
should  take  warning  by  him  and  not  desert  the  ranks, 
and  therefore,  in  that  sense  he  has  died  for  his  country." 

Then  Archie  Lamb  asked  Mr.  Sumption  to  write  to 
him  if  there  was  anything  more  he  wanted  to  know,  and 
said  that  he  would  forward  Jerry's  purse  and  ring  at  the 


MR.  SUMPTION  285 

first  opportunity.  After  the  signature  was  added :  "  It 
is  all  over  now,  and  happened  as  I  told  you.  He  was  still 
half  asleep,  and  suffered  practically  nothing." 


For  some  minutes  Mr.  Sumption  sat  with  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands.  Before  his  closed  eyes  he  saw  pass 
the  last  pitiful  act  of  Jerry's  tragedy.  He  saw  him  stand- 
ing defiant  and  furtive — he  would  always  look  defiant 
and  furtive,  even  if  half  awake — with  his  back  to  the 
wall  .  .  .  then — cr-r-rack ! — and  he  would  fall  down  at 
the  foot  of  it  in  a  crumpled  heap,  that  perhaps  still  moved 
a  little.  .  .  .  But  he  had  suffered  nothing  .  .  .  practically 
nothing.  .  .  . 

Then  he  saw  Jerry  standing  all  his  life  with  his  back 
to  a  wall,  every  man  armed  against  him.  He  had  but 
died  as  he  had  lived.  Even  his  own  father  had  been 
against  him,  had  misused  and  misunderstood  him.  There 
had  never  been  anyone  to  understand  that  mysterious, 
troubled  heart,  anyone  who  could  have  understood  it — 
except,  perhaps,  Meridian  Hearn,  his  mother — and  that 
queer  people  of  defiant  furtive  ways,  whose  dark  blood 
had  run  in  his  veins  and  been  his  ruin.  Meridian  Hearn 
should  not  have  married  the  gaujo  preacher  from  Beth- 
ersden — she  should  have  married  one  of  her  own  race, 
and  then  her  child  would  have  lived  among  those  of  like 
passions  as  he,  and  not  among  strangers,  who  had  mobbed 
him  and  pecked  his  eyes  out,  like  sparrows  attacking  a 
foreign  bird. 

"Oh,  Meridian,  Meridian! — our  boy's  dead.  ..." 

There  was  the  familiar  clatter  and  kick  outside  the 
door,  and  Mrs.  Hubble  came  in  with  the  breakfast  tray. 
Her  face  was  crimson  and  very  much  excited,  though  she 
tried  to  work  it  into  lines  of  woe ;  for  she  had  at  last 


286  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

heard  the  news  about  Jerry,  from  Gwen  Bourner,  who 
had  heard  it  from  Mrs.  Bill  Putland,  who  had  had  a 
letter  from  her  husband  that  morning.  All  Sunday 
Street  now  knew  that  Jerry  Sumption  had  been  shot  as 
a  deserter,  having  given  the  i8th  Sussex  the  slip  on  the 
eve  of  the  action  in  which  Tom  Beatup  and  Fred  Bourner 
and  Stacey  Collbran  and  other  local  boys  had  given  up 
their  limbs  and  lives — he  had  gone  to  a  French  woman, 
and  been  found  in  a  blouse  and  wooden  shoes.  The 
platoon  would  not  miss  him  much,  Bill  Putland  said; 
but  he  was  unaccountable  sorry  for  his  father. 

So,  to  do  her  justice,  was  Mrs.  Hubble.  She  had  put 
an  extra  spoonful  of  tea  in  his  teapot,  and  had  boiled 
him  an  egg,  a  luxury  which  was  not  included  in  his  board- 
ing fees.  Moreover,  she  gave  him  a  pitying  glance,  as 
she  swept  the  litter  of  sermon-paper  to  one  side. 

"  Will  you  want  me  to  tell  people  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"Tell  people  what?"  His  voice  came  throatily,  like 
an  old  man's. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  you  woan't  be  preaching  to-night  ?  " 

Something  in  her  voice  made  him  start  up,  and  pull 
himself  together.  He  saw  her  squinting  compassionately 
at  him,  with  the  corner  of  her  apron  in  readiness. 

"  Preach !— Why  do  you  ask  that?  " 

"  I've  heard  about  your  loss.  I  reckon  you  woan't  be 
feeling  in  heart  for  preaching." 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  I  cud  easy  stick  up  a  notice  on  the  chapel  door," 
she  continued,  "  and  all  the  folkses  hereabouts  ud  under- 
stand. They'd  never  expect  you  to  spik  after  wot's 
happened." 

"  Woman ! — what  has  happened  ?  " 

He  spoke  so  suddenly  and  so  loudly,  that  Mrs.  Hubble 
started,  and  dropped  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  I — I  .  .  .  well,  we've  all  of  us  heard,  Mus'  Sump- 
tion. .  ." 


MR.  SUMPTION  287 

"Heard  what?" 

"  I — I  .  .  .  Doan't  look  at  me  like  that,  minister,  for 
the  Lord's  sake." 

"  Speak  then.    What  have  you  all  heard  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hubble  was  recovering  from  her  alarm  and  be- 
ginning to  resent  his  manner. 

"  Well,  reckon  we've  heard  wot  you've  heard — as  your 
boy's  bin  shot  fur  deserting  his  regiment;  and  no  one 
expects  you  to  come  and  preach  in  chapel  after  that." 

A  wave  of  burning  crimson  went  over  Mr.  Sumption's 
face,  so  that  Mrs.  Hubble  said  afterwards  she  thought  as 
he'd  go  off  in  a  stroke.  Then  he  was  suddenly  white 
again,  and  speaking  quietly,  but  in  a  voice  that  some- 
how frightened  her  more  than  his  shouting. 

"  I  shall  certainly  preach  to-night.  I  will  not  have  the 
service  cancelled.  Tell  everyone  who  asks  you  that  I  shall 
certainly  preach." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

She  edged  towards  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Hubble !  Stop  a  moment.  Say  this,  too.  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  my  son.  I  reckon  you  all  think  I  am 
ashamed  of  him,  and  you  are  putting  your  heads  together 
and  clacking,  and  pitying  me  for  it.  But  I  am  not 
ashamed.  He  died  for  England.  Mr.  Archie  himself 
says  it.  These  are  his  very  words :  Wait !  " — for  Mrs. 
Hubble  was  going  to  bolt. 

"  I'm  waiting,  Mus'  Sumption." 

"  He  says,  '  Think  of  your  son  as  having  died  so  that 
other  men  should  take  warning  by  him  and  not  desert 
the  ranks,  and,  therefore,  in  that  sense  he  has  died  for 
his  country.'  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  you  can  go." 

Mrs.  Hubble  fled. 


288  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

8 

All  that  morning  heavy  pacings  over  her  head  con- 
vinced Mrs.  Hubble  that  the  minister  was  preparing  a 
wonderful  sermon.  She  generally  guessed  the  temper  of 
his  discourse  by  the  weight  and  width  of  the  stumpings 
which  preceded  it.  To-day  she  could  hear  him,  as  she 
expressed  it,  all  over  the  room  ...  he  was  kicking  the 
fire-irons  ...  he  had  overturned  his  chair  ...  he  had 
flung  up  the  window  and  banged  it  down  again.  Ob- 
viously something  great  was  in  process,  and  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  that  Mr.  Sumption  was  rather  mad.  It 
was  nothing  short  of  indecent  for  him  to  preach  to-night, 
after  what  had  happened — and  the  queer  way  he  had 
spoken  about  Jerry,  too.  .  .  . 

By  this  time  the  whole  of  Sunday  Street  knew  about 
Jerry.  He  was  discussed  at  breakfast-tables,  in  barns, 
on  doorsteps,  on  milking-stools.  No  one  was  surprised ; 
indeed,  most  people  seemed  to  have  foretold  his  bad  end. 
"  I  said  as  he'd  come  to  no  good,  that  gipsy's  brat."  "  A 
valiant  minister  wot  can't  breed  up  his  own  son."  "  How- 
sumdever,  I'm  middling  sorry  fur  the  poor  chap;  I'll 
never  disremember  how  he  saaved  that  cow  of  mine  wot 
wur  dying  of  garget."  "  And  I'm  hemmed,  maaster,  if 
he  wurn't  better  wud  my  lambing  ewes  than  my  own 
looker,  surelye." 

On  the  whole,  the  news  improved  his  chances  of  a  con- 
gregation. It  was  a  better  advertisement  than  the  notice 
on  the  church  door,  or  even  than  his  veterinary  achieve- 
ment at  Egypt  Farm.  Some  "  wanted  to  see  how  he  took 
it,"  others  openly  admired  his  pluck ;  all  were  stirred  by 
curiosity  and  also  by  compassion.  During  the  years  he 
had  lived  among  them  he  had  grown  dear  to  them  and 
rather  contemptible.  They  looked  down  on  him  for  his 
shabbiness,  his  poverty,  his  pastoral  blundering,  his  lack 


MR.  SUMPTION  289 

of  education ;  but  they  liked  him  for  his  willingness,  his 
simplicity,  his  sturdy  good  looks,  his  strong  muscles,  his 
knowledge  of  cattle  and  horses. 

All  that  morning  people  wavered  up  the  street  towards 
the  Horselunges,  and  looked  at  it,  and  at  the  Bethel. 
Sometimes  they  gathered  together  in  little  groups,  but 
always  some  way  off.  The  Bethel  stared  blindly  over 
the  roof  of  the  Horselunges,  as  if  it  ignored  the  misery 
huddled  at  its  doors.  No  matter  what  might  be  the  pri- 
vate sorrows  of  its  servant,  he  must  come  to-night  and 
preach  within  its  walls  those  iron  doctrines  of  Doomsday 
and  Damnation  in  whose  honour  it  had  been  built  and 
had  stood  staring  over  the  fields  with  the  blind  eyes  of  a 
corpse  for  a  hundred  years. 

Towards  noon  Thyrza  Beatup  came  up  the  street, 
walking  briskly,  with  her  weeds  flapping  behind  her.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  been  out  since  her  widowing, 
and  people  stared  at  her  from  their  doors  as  she  walked 
boldly  up  to  Horselunges  and  knocked. 

"How  is  poor  Mus'  Sumption?"  she  asked  Mrs. 
Hubble. 

"  Lamentaable,  lamentaable,"  said  Mrs.  Hubble,  with 
eye  and  apron  in  conjunction. 

"  Well,  please  tell  him  as  Mrs.  Tom  Beatup  sends  her 
kind  remembrances  and  sympathy,  and  she  reckons  she 
knows  wot  he  feels,  feeling  the  saum  herself." 

"  Very  good,  Mrs.  Beatup." 

"  And  you'll  be  sure  and  give  it  all  wot  I  said — about 
feeling  the  saum  myself?  " 

"  Oh,  sartain." 

Thyrza  walked  off.  Her  face  was  very  white  and 
wooden.  Mrs.  Hubble  stared  after  her. 

"  Middling  pretty  as  golden-haired  women  look  in  them 
weeds.  .  .  .  Feels  the  saum  as  Mus'  Sumption,  does  she? 
That's  flueer,  seeing  as  Tom  died  lik  Onward  Christian 


290  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

Soldiers,  and  Jerry  lik  a  dog.  Howsumdever,  I  mun  give 
her  words  .  .  .  maybe  he'll  be  fool  enough  to  believe 
them." 

The  day  was  warm  and  misty,  without  much  sun.  The 
sky  above  the  woods  was  yellowish,  like  milk,  and  the  air 
smelt  of  rain.  But  the  rain  did  not  come  till  evening. 
Mr.  Poullett-Smith's  congregation  assembled  dry,  and 
nobody's  black  was  spoiled  on  the  way  home.  In  spite 
of  this,  the  service  was  not  thickly  attended.  The  ad- 
vertisement which  Jerry  Sumption's  death  had  given  the 
Bethel  made  those  who  had  time  or  inclination  for  only 
one  church-going  decide  to  put  it  off  until  the  evening. 
Only  a  few  assembled  to  hear  the  curate  pray  that  the 
souls  they  commemorated — among  which  he  was  not 
afraid  to  include  Jerry — might  be  brought  by  Saint 
Michael,  the  standard-bearer,  into  the  holy  light. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Bethel  was  crowded,  and  by 
this  time  it  was  raining  hard.  The  air  was  thick  with  the 
steaming  of  damp  clothes.  The  lamps  shuddered  and 
smoked  in  the  draught  of  the  rising  wind,  and  the  big, 
blinded  windows  were  running  down  with  rain,  as  if  they 
wept  for  the  destruction  of  the  chapel  weed.  .  .  . 

Never  had  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sumption  such  a  congregation. 
Nearly  the  whole  of  Sunday  Street  jostled  in  the  pews. 
Instead  of  the  meagre  peppering  of  heads,  there  were 
tight  rows  of  them,  like  peas  in  pods.  All  the  Beatups 
were  there,  except  Nell,  who  had  stayed  at  home  to  look 
after  the  house ;  even  Mus'  Beatup  had  hobbled  over  on 
his  stick.  The  Putlands  were  there,  and  Mrs.  Bill  Put- 
land,  and  the  Sindens  and  the  Bourners  and  the  Hubbies. 
Thyrza  had  come,  with  little  Will  asleep  in  her  arms — she 
sat  near  the  back,  in  case  she  should  have  to  take  him  out. 
The  Hollowbones  had  come  from  the  Foul  Mile  and  the 
Kadwells  from  Stilliands  Tower ;  there  were  Collbrans 
from  Satanstown,  Viners  from  Puddledock,  Ades  from 


MR.  SUMPTION  291 

Bodle  Street,  and  even  stragglers  from  Brownbread 
Street  and  Dallington.  Most  of  them  had  never  been  in 
the  Bethel  before,  and  it  struck  them  as  unaccountable 
mean,  with  its  smoking  lamps  and  windows  flapping  with 
dingy  blinds,  its  pews  that  smelled  of  wood-rot,  and  its 
walls  all  peeled  and  scarred  with  moisture  and  decay. 

There  was  a  rustle  and  scrape  as  Mr.  Sumption  came 
in,  through  the  little  door  behind  the  pulpit.  Then  there 
was  silence  as  he  stood  looking  down,  apparently  un- 
moved, on  what  must  have  been  to  him  an  extraordinary 
sight — his  church  crowded,  full  to  the  doors,  as  he  had 
so  often  dreamed,  but  never  seen.  He  looked  pale  and 
languid,  and  his  eyes  were  like  smoky  lanterns.  His  voice 
also  seemed  to  have  lost  its  ring  as  he  gave  out  the  number 
of  the  psalm,  and  then  in  the  prayer  which  followed  it. 
Moreover,  though  the  congregation,  being  mostly  new, 
shuffled  and  kicked  its  heels  disgracefully,  he  thumped  at 
no  one. 

"  Pore  soul,  he  shudn't  ought  to  have  tried  it,"  thought 
Thyrza  to  herself  in  her  corner.  "  He'll  never  get 
through." 

After  the  prayer,  which  was  astonishingly  nerveless  for 
a  prayer  of  Mr.  Sumption's,  came  a  hymn,  during  which 
the  minister  sat  in  the  pulpit,  his  hand  over  his  face. 
Those  in  the  front  rows  saw  his  jaws  work  as  if  he  was 
praying.  People  whispered  behind  their  Bibles — "  He's 
different,  surelye — just  lik  a  Church  parson  to-night." 
"  Reckon  it's  changed  him — knocked  all  the  beans  out  of 
him,  as  you  might  say."  "  Pore  chap,  he  looks  middling 
tired — reckon  he  finds  this  a  tar'ble  job." 

Then  the  singing  stopped,  and  Mr.  Sumption  stood  up, 
wearily  turning  over  the  leaves  of  his  big  Bible. 

"  Brethren,  you  will  find  my  text  in  the  Eleventh  of 
John,  the  fiftieth  verse :  '  It  is  expedient  that  one  man 
should  die  for  the  people.'  " 


292  THE  FOUR  ROADS 


The  sermon  began  with  the  unaccustomed  flatness  of 
the  rest  of  the  service.  Mr.  Sumption's  voice  had  lost 
its  resonance,  his  arms  no  longer  waved  like  windmill- 
sails,  nor  did  his  joints  crack  like  dried  osiers.  He  made 
his  points  languidly  on  his  ringers,  instead  of  thumping 
them  out  on  the  pulpit  with  his  fist.  The  congregation 
would  have  been  disappointed  if  they  had  not  known 
the  reason  for  this  slackness ;  as  things  were,  it  was  part 
of  the  spectacle.  They  noticed,  too,  a  certain  bitterness 
that  crept  into  his  speech  now  and  then,  as  when  he 
described  the  Chief  Priests  and  Scribes  plotting  together 
to  take  refuge  behind  the  sacrifice  of  Christ.  "  It  is 
expedient  for  us  ...  that  the  whole  nation  perish  not." 

"  Brethren,  I  see  them  nodding  their  ugly  beards  to- 
gether, and  saying :  '  Let  this  young  man  go  and  die  for 
us.  One  man  must  die  for  the  people,  and  it  shan't  be 
one  of  us,  I  reckon — we're  too  important,  we  can't  be 
spared.  Let  us  send  this  young  man  to  his  death.  It  is 
expedient  that  he  should  die  for  the  nation.'  " 

Then  suddenly  he  stiffened  his  back,  bringing  his  open 
Bible  together  with  a  thud,  while  his  voice  rang  out  with 
the  old  clearness : 

"  Reckon  that  was  what  you  said  among  yourselves 
when  you  saw  the  young  men  we're  thinking  of  to-night 
go  up  before  the  Tribunal,  or  volunteer  at  the  Recruiting 
Office.  You  said  to  yourselves,  '  That's  right,  that's 
proper.  It  is  expedient  that  these  young  men  should 
go  and  die  for  the  people.  I  like  to  see  a  young  man 
go  to  fight  for  his  country.  I'm  too  old  .  .  .  I've  got  a 
bad  leg  .  .  .  but  I  like  to  see  the  young  men  go.'  " 

For  a  moment  he  stood  and  glared  at  them,  as  in  the 
old  days,  his  eyes  like  coals,  his  big  teeth  bared  like  a 
fighting  dog's.  Then  once  again  his  weariness  dropped 


MR.  SUMPTION  293 

over  him,  his  head  hung,  and  his  sentences  ran  together, 
husky  and  indistinct. 

The  congregation  shuffled  and  coughed.  The  service 
required  peppermint-sucking  to  help  it  through,  and  owing 
to  war  conditions  no  peppermints  were  forthcoming. 
Zacky  Beatup  made  a  rabbit  out  of  his  handkerchief  and 
slid  it  over  the  back  of  the  pew  at  Lily  Sinden.  Mus' 
Beatup  began  to  calculate  the  odds  against  the  Bethel 
closing  before  the  Rifle  Volunteer.  Old  Mus'  Hollow- 
bone  from  the  Foul  Mile  crossed  his  legs  and  went  to 
sleep,  just  as  if  he  was  sitting  with  the  Wesleyans. 
Then  Maudie  Sinden  pulled  a  screw  of  paper  out  of  her 
pocket  and  extracted  a  piece  of  black  gum — the  very  piece 
she  had  taken  out  of  her  mouth  on  entering  the  chapel, 
knowing  that  no  sweet  had  ever  been  sucked  there  since 
Tommy  Bourner  was  bidden  "  spue  forth  that  apple  of 
Sodom  "  two  years  ago.  Thyrza  had  never  seen  a  con- 
gregation so  demoralised,  but  then  she  had  never  seen  a 
minister  so  dull,  so  drony,  so  lack-lustre,  so  lifeless.  "  He 
shudn't  ought  to  have  tried  it,  poor  chap,"  she  murmured 
into  the  baby's  shawl. 

Then  suddenly  Mr.  Sumption's  fist  came  down  on  his 
Bible.  The  pulpit  lamps  shuddered,  and  rattled  their 
glass  shades,  and  the  congregation  started  into  postures 
of  attention,  as  the  minister  glared  up  and  down  the  rows 
of  heads  in  the  pod-like  pews. 

"  Reckon  you've  no  heart  for  the  Gospel  to-day,"  he 
said  severely.  "  Pray  the  Lord  to  change  your  hearts, 
as  He  changed  my  sermon.  This  is  not  the  sermon  I 
had  meant  to  preach  to  you,  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  it 
is  the  Lord's  doing.  I  had  for  my  text :  '  The  day  of 
the  Lord  is  at  hand,  as  the  morning  spread  upon  the 
mountains.'  That  was  my  text,  and  I  had  meant  to  warn 
you  all  of  the  coming  of  that  day,  as  I  have  so  often 
warned  you.  It  is  a  day  which  shall  burn  like  an  oven, 


294  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

and  the  strong  man  shall  cry  therein  mightily ;  it  is  a  day 
of  darkness  and  gloominess,  of  clouds  and  thick  dark- 
ness. Then  I  was  going  forward  to  show  you  how  the 
Sign  of  the  Son  of  Man  shall  be  in  the  heavens,  and  how 
He  shall  appear  in  clouds  with  great  glory.  .  .  .  But  the 
Lord  came  then  and  smote  me,  and  I  lay  as  dead  before 
Him,  like  Moses  in  the  Mount.  And  when  I  came  to 
myself,  I  knew  that  the  Sign  of  the  Son  of  Man  is 
already  with  us  here — not  in  heaven,  but  on  earth — rising 
up  out  of  the  earth  .  .  .  over  there  in  France — the 
crosses  of  the  million  Christs  you  have  crucified." 

They  were  all  listening  now.  He  could  see  their  cran- 
ing, attentive  faces,  and  their  kicks  and  coughs  had  died 
down  into  a  rather  scandalised  silence. 

"  The  million  Christs  you  have  crucified,  all  those  boys 
you  sent  out  to  die  for  the  people.  You  sent  them  in 
millions  to  die  for  you  and  for  your  little  children,  and 
their  blood  shall  be  on  you  and  on  your  children.  Oh, 
you  stiff-necked  and  uncircumcised — talking  of  Judg- 
ment as  if  it  was  a  great  way  off,  and  behold  it  is  at  your 
doors ;  and  the  Christ  Whom  you  look  for  has  come  sud- 
denly to  His  temple — in  the  suffering  youth  of  this  coun- 
try— all  countries — in  these  boys  who  go  out  and  suffer 
and  die  and  bleed,  cheerfully,  patiently,  like  sheep — that 
the  whole  nation  perish  not. 

"  Think  of  the  boys  you  have  sent,  the  boys  we're 
specially  remembering  here  to-day.  There  was  Tom 
Beatup — a  good  honest  lad,  simple  and  clean  as  a  little 
child.  He  went  out  to  fight  for  you,  but  I  reckon  you 
never  woke  up  in  your  comfortable  bed  and  said : 
'  There's  poor  Tom  Beatup,  up  to  the  loins  in  mud,  and 
freezing  with  cold,  and  maybe  as  empty  as  a  rusty  pail.' 
The  thought  of  him  never  spoiled  your  night's  rest,  and 
you  never  felt,  '  I've  got  to  struggle  tooth  and  nail  to  be 
worth  his  sacrificing  himself  like  that  for  an  old  useless 


MR.  SUMPTION  295 

trug  like  me,  and  I'll  do  my  best  to  help  my  country  at 
home  in  any  way  as  it  can  be  done,  so  as  the  War  ull 
be  shortened  and  Tom  ull  have  a  few  nights  less  in  the 
mud.'  That's  what  you  ought  to  have  said,  but  I  reckon 
you  didn't  say  it. 

"  There's  Stacey  Collbran,  too,  who  left  a  young 
sweetheart,  and  ull  never  know  the  love  of  wedded  life 
because  you  had  to  be  died  for.  Do  you  ever  think  of 
him  when  your  wife  lies  in  your  bosom,  and  say,  '  Reckon 
I'll  be  good  to  my  wife,  since  for  my  sake  a  poor  chap 
never  had  his  '  ? 

"  And  there's  Fred  Bourner,  and  Sid  Viner,  and  Joe 
Kadwell,  and  Leslie  Ades — they  all  went  out  to  die  for 
you,  and  they  died,  and  you  come  here  to  remember  them 
to-night ;  but  in  your  hearts,  which  ought  to  be  breaking 
with  reverence  and  gratitude,  you're  just  saying,  '  It's 
proper,  it's  expedient  that  these  men  should  die  for  the 
people,  that  the  whole  nation  perish  not.' 

"And  there's  my  boy.  ..." 

The  minister's  voice  hung  paused  for  a  minute.  He 
leaned  over  the  pulpit,  his  hands  gripping  the  wood  till 
their  knuckles  stood  out  white  from  the  coarse  brown. 
His  eyes  travelled  up  and  down  the  pew-pods  of  staring 
heads,  as  if  he  expected  to  see  contradiction  or  mockery 
or  surprise.  But  the  Sunday  Street  face  is  not  expressive, 
and  except  for  the  utter  stillness,  Mr.  Sumption  might 
have  been  reading  the  chapel  accounts. 

"  There's  my  boy,  Jerry  Sumption.  Maybe  you  thought 
I  wouldn't  talk  of  him  to-night,  that  I'd  be  ashamed,  that 
I'd  never  dare  mention  his  name  along  of  your  gallant 
boys.  Besides,  you  say,  what's  he  got  to  do  with  it? 
He  never  died  for  the  people.  But  you  thought  wrong. 
I'm  not  ashamed  to  speak  his  name  along  of  Tom  and 
Stace  and  Fred  and  Sid  and  Joe,  and  he  hasn't  got  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it,  either.  For  I  tell  you — my  boy  died  for 


296  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

your  boys.  He  died  as  an  example  and  warning  to  them, 
to  save  them  from  a  like  fate,  and  if  that  isn't  dying  for 
them.  .  .  .  These  are  Mr.  Archie  Lamb's  very  words : 
'  Your  son  is  dying  so  that  other  men  may  be  warned  by 
his  fate  and  stick  to  the  ranks  and  do  their  duty  as  sol- 
diers; therefore,  in  that  sense  he  has  died  for  his  coun- 
try.' I  reckon  it  seems  a  big  thing  to  shoot  a  boy  just 
for  going  off  to  see  his  girl  when  the  company's  march- 
ing ;  but  if  it  weren't  done  then  other  boys  ud  stop  away 
and  the  regiment  go  to  pieces.  Mr.  Archie  and  the  other 
officers  said,  '  It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die  for 
the  regiment,  that  the  whole  army  perish  not.'  .  .  . 

"  No!  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  boy!  If  he  was  led 
astray  at  the  last  moment  by  his  evil,  human  passions, 
who  shall  judge  him? — Not  I,  and  not  you.  He  did  not 
desert  because  he  was  a  coward,  because  he  funked  the 
battle  before  him.  Listen  again  to  Mr.  Archie  Lamb; 
he  says,  '  Sumption  is  not  a  coward — I  have  seen  him 
in  action,  and  I  repeat  that  he  is  as  plucky  as  any  one.' 
And  he  joined  up  as  a  volunteer,  too — he  didn't  have  to 
be  fetched,  he  didn't  go  before  the  Tribunal  and  say  he'd 
got  a  bad  leg,  or  a  bad  arm,  and  his  father  couldn't  run 
the  business  without  him.  He  joined  up  out  of  free-will 
and  love  of  his  country.  The  Army  was  no  place  for 
him,  for  his  blood  was  the  blood  of  the  Rossarmescroes 
or  Hearns,  which  knows  not  obedience.  When  he  joined 
he  risked  his  life  not  only  at  the  hands  of  the  enemy  but 
at  the  hands  of  his  own  countrymen,  and  it  is  his  own 
countrymen  that  have  put  him  to  death,  '  that  the  whole 
nation  perish  not.' 

"  I  tell  you,  my  boy  died  for  your  boys ;  my  boy  died 
for  you,  and  you  shall  not  look  down  on  his  sacrifice. 
Over  his  grave  is  the  Sign  of  the  Son  of  Man,  Who  gave 
His  life  as  a  ransom  for  many.  To  save  your  boys  from 
the  possibility  of  a  disgrace  such  as  his  my  boy  died  in 


MR.  SUMPTION  297 

shame.  When  they  see  the  grave  of  Jerry  Sumption  they 
will  say :  '  That  is  the  grave  of  a  man  who  died  because 
he  could  not  obey  laws  or  control  passions,  because  he 
was  not  master  of  his  own  blood.  Therefore  let  us  take 
heed  by  him  and  walk  warily,  and  do  our  duty  as  sol- 
diers; and  if  we  must  die,  not  die  as  he  died.  .  .  .'  So 
my  son  died  for  your  sons,  and  my  son  and  your  sons 
died  for  you ;  and  I  ask  you :  '  Are  you  worth  dying 
for?'" 

Again  the  minister  was  silent,  staring  down  at  the 
rows  of  wooden,  expressionless  faces,  now  faintly  a-sweat 
in  the  steam  and  heat  of  the  Bethel.  Then  suddenly  he 
burst  out  at  them,  loudly,  impatiently: 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  truth  about  yourselves.  I'll  tell  you 
if  you're  worth  dying  for.  What  has  this  War  meant  to 
you?  What  have  you  done  for  this  War?  There's  just 
one  answer  to  both  questions.  Nothing.  While  men  were 
fighting  for  their  own  and  your  existence,  while  they  were 
suffering  horrors  out  there  in  France  which  you  can't 
think  of,  and  if  you  could  think  of  could  not  speak  of, 
you  were  just  muddling  about  there  in  your  little  ways, 
thinking  of  nothing  but  crops  and  prices  and  the  little  silly 
inconveniences  you  had  to  put  up  with.  Ho !  I  reckon 
you  never  thought  of  the  War,  except  when  you  got  some 
cheery  letter  from  your  boy,  telling  you  he  was  having  the 
time  of  his  life  out  there,  or  when  the  price  of  bread 
went  up,  or  you  had  to  eat  margarine  instead  of  butter, 
or  you  couldn't  get  your  Sunday  joint.  All  that  war 
meant  to  you  was  new  orders  about  lights,  and  tribunals 
taking  your  farmhands,  and  prices  going  up  and  food 
getting  scarce,  and  the  War  Agricultural  Committee  leav- 
ing Cultivation  orders.  And  all  the  time  you  grumbled 
and  groused,  and  wrote  out  to  your  boys  that  you  were 
dying  of  want,  weakening  their  hearts — they  who  wrote 
you  kind  and  cheery  letters  out  of  the  gates  of  hell.  You 


298  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

stiff-necked  and  uncircumcised  in  heart  and  ears !  You 
little,  little  souls,  that  only  bother  about  the  little  concerns 
of  your  little  parish  in  the  middle  of  this  great  woe.  The 
end  of  the  world  is  come,  and  you  know  it  not;  Christ 
is  dying  for  you  and  you  heed  Him  not.  Are  you  worth 
dying  for?  Are  you  worth  living  for?  No — you're 
scarce  worth  preaching  at." 

By  this  time  there  were  signs  of  animation  among  the 
pea-pods.  The  peas  rolled  from  side  to  side,  and  a  faint 
rustle  of  indignation  came  from  them. 

"  I  know  why  you're  here  to-night,"  continued  Mr. 
Sumption.  "  You've  come  to  gaze  on  me,  to  watch  me 
in  my  trouble,  to  see  how  I  take  it.  You  haven't  come  to 
hear  the  Gospel — you  yawned  and  wriggled  all  the  time 
I  was  preaching  it.  You  haven't  come  just  to  think  of 
the  dead  boys — you  did  that  in  church  this  morning. 
You're  here  to  gaze  at  me,  to  see  how  I  take  it.  Well, 
now  you  see  how  I  take  it.  You  see  I'm  not  ashamed. 
Why  should  I  be  ashamed  of  my  son?  He's  worth  a 
bundle  of  you — he's  died  a  better  death  than  anyone  in 
this  church  is  likely  to  die;  and  if  he  lived  a  vessel  of 
wrath,  at  all  events  he  was  a  full  vessel,  not  just  a  jug 
of  emptiness.  He  lived  like  the  wild  man  he  was  born, 
and  he  died  like  a  poor  wild  animal  shot  down.  But  I  am 
not  ashamed  of  him.  And  though  he  died  without  bap- 
tism, without  conversion,  without  assurance,  I  cannot  and 
I  will  not  believe  that  he  is  lost.  Somewhere  the  love  of 
God  is  holding  him.  The  Lord  tells  me  that  my  father- 
hood is  only  a  poor  mess  of  His;  well,  in  that  case,  I 
reckon  He  won't  cast  out  my  lad.  Willingly  I'd  bear  his 
sins  for  him,  and  so  I  reckon  Christ  will  bear  them  even 
for  the  child  of  wrath.  Where  I  can  love,  He  can  love 
more,  and  since  He  died  as  a  felon,  reckon  He  feels  for 
my  poor  boy.  He  knows  what  it  is  to  stand  with  His 
back  to  the  wall  and  see  every  man's  hand  raised  against 


MR.  SUMPTION  299 

Him,  and  every  man's  tongue  stuck  out.  And  because 
He  knows,  He  understands,  and  because  He  understands, 
He  forgives.  Amen." 

The  windows  of  the  Bethel  shook  mournfully  in  the 
wind,  and  the  rain  hissed  down  them,  as  if  it  shuddered 
and  wept  to  hear  such  doctrine  within  its  walls.  But 
the  sounds  were  lost  in  the  shuffle  of  the  rising  congre- 
gation, standing  up  to  sing  the  psalm. 


10 

That  night  the  minister  did  not  stand  at  the  door  to 
shake  hands  with  the  departing  congregation.  Beatups, 
Putlands,  Sindens,  Hubbies,  Bourners,  jostled  their  way 
unsaluted  into  the  darkness,  groping  with  umbrellas, 
fumbling  into  cloaks.  But  even  the  rain  could  not  pre- 
vent an  exchange  of  indignation.  People  formed  them- 
selves into  clumps  and  scurried  together  over  the  wet 
road.  From  every  clump  voices  rose  in  expostulation  and 
resentment. 

"  To  think  as  I'd  live  to  be  insulted  in  church !  " 

"  Reckon  he'd  never  dare  say  half  that  in  a  plaace 
whur  folkses'  tongues  wurn't  tied  to  answer  him." 

"  Maade  out  as  we  thought  only  of  our  insides,"  said 
Mrs.  Sinden.  "  Seemingly  he  never  thinks  of  his,  when 
all  the  village  knows  he  wur  trying  the  other  day  to 
maake  Mrs.  Tom  give  him  a  tin  of  salmon  fur  ninepence 
instead  of  one-and-three." 

"  And  she  did  it,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Putland. 

"  It's  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Beatup,  "  as  he  called  me  stiff- 
necked  and  uncircumcised,  and  I  reckon  I  aun't  neither." 

"  And  he  said  I  wur  lik  an  empty  jug,"  said  Mus' 
Beatup. 

"  And  his  Jerry's  worth  a  bundle  of  us,"  laughed  Mus' 
Sinden. 


300  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Wot  vrothers  me,"  wheezed  old  Father-in-law 
Hubble,  "  is  that  to  the  best  of  my  hearing  I  heard  him 
maake  out  as  Christ  died  fur  all." 

"  And  why  shudn't  he  ?  "  asked  Mus'  Putland. 

"  Because  Mus'  Sumption's  paid  seventy  pound  a  year 
to  teach  as  Christ  died  for  the  Elect,  and  so  he  always 
has  done  till  to-night." 

"  Well,  seemingly  thur  wurn't  much  Elect  in  gipsy 
Jerry,  so  he  had  to  change  his  mind  about  that.  Reckon 
he  had  to  git  Jerry  saaved  somehow." 

"  But  he'd  no  call  to  chaange  the  Divine  council — I've 
half  a  mind  to  write  to  the  Assembly  about  it." 

"  Wot  sticks  in  my  gizzard,"  said  Mus'  Bourner,  "  is 
that  to  hear  him  you'd  think  as  we're  all  to  blame  for 
Jerry's  going  wrong,  while  I  tell  you  it's  naun  but  his 
own  mismanaging  and  bad  breeding-up  of  the  boy. 
'  Bring  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,  and  when  he 
is  old  he  will  not  depart  from  it.'  That's  Bible,  but  it's 
sense  too.  It's  all  very  praaper  for  Minister  to  stick  by 
the  young  boy  now  and  say  he  aun't  ashaumed  of  him, 
but  if  only  he'd  brought  him  up  Christian  and  not  spoiled 
him,  reckon  he'd  never  have  bin  called  upon  to  stand  thur 
and  say  it" 

There  were  murmurs  and  assenting  "  Surelyes." 

"  He  spoiled  that  boy  summat  tar'ble,"  continued  the 
smith.  "  Cudn't  say  No  to  him,  and  let  him  have  his 
head  justabout  shocking.  Then  maybe  he'd  git  angry 
when  the  young  chap  had  disgraced  him,  and  hit  him 
about  a  bit.  But  thur  aun't  no  sense  in  that,  nuther. 
Wot  Jerry  wanted  wur  a  firm,  light  hand  and  no  whip 
— and  Mus'  Sumption  ud  have  been  the  fust  to  see  it  if 
Jerry  had  bin  a  horse." 

"  Well,  he's  got  his  punishment  now,"  said  Mrs.  Put- 
land.  "  Poor  soul,  my  heart  bleeds  for  him." 

"  Howsumdever,  he'd  no  call  to  insult  us,"  said  Mrs. 


MR.  SUMPTION  301 

Sinden,  "  and  I  fur  one  ull  never  set  foot  agaun  in  that 
Bethel  as  long  as  I  live." 

Thyrza  Beatup  did  not  walk  with  the  others.  Her 
grief  was  still  too  raw,  and  Mr.  Sumption's  words  about 
Tom  had  made  her  cry.  She  carried  Will  under  her 
cloak,  walking  quickly  over  the  wet  ruts,  home  to  the 
fire  before  which  she  would  undress  him  and  put  him 
to  bed.  Mr.  Sumption's  sermon  had  not  had  the  same 
effect  on  her  as  on  the  others — for  one  thing,  she  thought 
of  Tom  more  than  of  Jerry;  for  another,  her  feeling 
towards  the  minister  was  of  pure  compassion.  Poor 
chap!  how  he  must  have  suffered,  how  he  must  have 
hated  all  those  who  mourned  honourably,  who  grieved 
for  heroes  and  saints,  such  as  her  Tom.  What  would 
she  have  felt,  she  wondered,  if  Tom  had  died  like 
Jerry?  .  .  . 

She  wished  she  could  have  seen  Mr.  Sumption  after 
the  service,  and  asked  him  in  to  a  bit  of  supper.  Poor 
soul !  one  could  always  comfort  him  through  his  inside. 
She  was  glad  Tom  had  been  to  see  him  on  his  last  leave 
...  he  had  spoken  very  nicely  of  Tom. 

She  came  to  the  little  house,  all  blurred  into  the  dark- 
ness, with  the  rain  scudding  before  it.  A  pale,  blue  light 
hung  under  the  clouds  from  the  hidden  moon,  and  was 
faintly  reflected  in  the  gleaming  wet  of  the  roadway. 
Thyrza  fumbled  for  her  key,  and  let  herself  into  the 
shop.  The  firelight  leaped  to  meet  her.  As  she  turned 
to  shut  the  door,  she  saw  a  man  go  quickly  past,  head 
sloped,  shoulders  hunched  against  the  wind. 


II 

Mr.  Sumption  felt  he  could  not  stay  indoors — he  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  sitting  long  hours,  harassed  and 
lonely,  in  that  shabby,  wind-thridden  study  of  his,  with 


302  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

the  peeled  wall-paper  flapping  in  the  draught  and  the 
rain  cracking  on  the  windows.  Besides,  he  would  have 
to  face  a  personal  encounter  with  Mrs.  Hubble,  and 
weather  the  storm  of  her  wrath  at  being  "  preached  at  " ; 
more  than  once  she  had  thought  fit  to  give  him  a  piece  of 
her  mind  when  the  sermon  had  affronted  her.  The 
tongue  of  a  scolding  woman  was  an  anti-climax  he  dared 
not  face,  so  he  let  himself  out  of  the  little  door  at  the 
back  of  the  chapel,  and,  turning  up  his  collar,  marched 
away  against  the  rain. 

He  had  no  exact  idea  where  he  was  going.  All  he 
knew  was  that  he  wanted  to  get  away  from  Sunday 
Street,  from  the  people  who  had  come  to  stare  at  him 
in  his  trouble.  A  lump  of  rage  rose  in  his  throat  and 
choked  him,  and  tears  of  rage  burned  at  the  back  of  his 
eyes.  He  saw  the  rows  of  stolid  faces,  the  greased  heads, 
the  stupid  bonnets.  There  they  had  sat  and  wagged 
in  judgment  on  him  and  his  boy.  There  they  had  sat, 
the  people  who  were  content  to  be  suffered  and  died 
for  by  the  boys  in  Flanders,  while  they  stayed  at  home 
and  grumbled.  Well,  thank  the  Lord  he  had  told  them 
what  they  were!  Ho!  he  had  given  it  to  them  straight 
— he  had  made  their  ears  burn! 

He  walked  on  and  on,  cracking  his  joints  with  fury. 
He  had  turned  into  the  East  Road  at  Font's  Green,  and 
was  now  hurrying  southward,  head  down,  to  meet  the 
gale.  There  was  something  in  the  flogging  and  whirling 
of  the  wind  which  stimulated  him ;  he  found  relief  in 
pushing  against  the  storm,  in  swallowing  the  rain  that 
beat  upon  his  lips  and  trickled  down  his  face.  He  would 
walk  till  he  was  tired,  and  then  he  would  find  some 
sheltered  place  to  go  to  sleep.  Only  through  exhaustion 
could  he  hope  to  find  sleep  to-night.  It  would  be  horrible 
to  lie  and  toss  in  stuffy  sheets,  while  the  darkness  pressed 
down  his  eyeballs  and  at  last  the  dawn  crept  mocking 


MR.  SUMPTION  303 

round  the  window.  ...  It  did  not  matter  if  he  stopped 
out  all  night;  he  did  not  care  what  people  thought  of 
him — he  had  burned  his  boats. 

The  moon  was  still  pale  under  the  clouds,  and  the  wet 
road  gleamed  like  pewter.  The  hedges  roared,  as  the 
wind  moved  in  them,  and  every  now  and  then  he  could 
hear  the  swish  of  a  great  tree,  or  the  cracking  and  crying 
of  a  wood.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  tumult  he  felt  very 
lonely — if  he  passed  a  farm,  with  slats  of  lamplight  under 
its  blinds,  he  felt  more  lonely  still.  But  it  was  better 
than  the  loneliness  of  a  room,  of  the  room  to  Which  some- 
one he  loved  would  never  come  again.  He  had  a  sudden 
memory  of  Jerry  as  he  had  seen  him,  the  morning  after 
the  boy's  own  night  out  of  doors,  sitting  like  a  monkey 
in  the  big  wash-tub  in  front  of  the  fire.  .  .  . 

It  must  have  been  between  two  and  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  when  Mr.  Sumption  found  the  road  leading 
past  the  gape  of  a  big  barn.  By  this  time  his  legs  were 
aching  with  cold  and  wet,  and  his  face  felt  all  raw  with 
the  sting  of  the  rain.  It  would  be  good  to  take  shelter 
for  a  little  while.  Then  he  would  go  home,  and  brave 
Mrs.  Hubble.  He  would  be  back  in  his  study  when  she 
brought  in  his  breakfast.  Breakfast  ...  he  rubbed  his 
big  hands  together,  he  was  already  beginning  to  feel 
hungry.  But  before  he  went  home  he  must  rest.  That 
weariness  which  had  muffled  him  like  a  cloak  in  the 
chapel,  fumbling  his  movements  and  veiling  his  eyes,  was 
dropping  over  him  now.  He  felt  the  weight  of  it  in  his 
limbs,  and,  worse  still,  in  his  heart  and  brain.  When  he 
shut  his  eyes  he  saw  nothing  but  rows  of  heads,  staring 
and  wagging.  .  .  .  He  went  into  the  barn,  and  the  sudden 
stopping  of  the  wind  and  rain  made  him  feel  dazed. 
Then  a  queer  thing  happened — he  pitched  forward  on  his 
face  into  a  pile  of  straw,  not  giddy,  not  fainting,  merely 
fast  asleep. 


304  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

12 

For  some  hours  he  slept  heavily  in  his  pitched,  huddled 
attitude,  but  as  the  cloud  of  sleep  lightened  before  waking, 
he  had  another  dream  of  the  old  forge  at  Bethersden,  and 
of  himself  working  there,  in  the  days  before  the 
"  voices "  came.  He  saw  the  great  red  glow  of  the 
forge  spread  out  over  the  cross-roads,  fanning  up  the  road 
to  Horsmonden  and  the  road  to  Witsunden  and  the  road 
to  Castweasel.  He  saw  the  smithy  full  of  it,  and  himself 
and  his  father  working  in  it,  with  arms  swung  over  the 
glowing  iron — he  heard  the  roar  of  the  furnace  and  the 
thump  of  the  hammers ;  and  a  great  fulness  of  peace  was 
in  his  heart.  Dimly  conscious  in  his  dream  of  all  that 
had  passed  since  those  happy  days,  he  felt  a  wonderful 
relief  at  being  back  in  them,  and  the  sweetest  doubt  as 
to  the  reality  of  his  later  experiences.  ...  So  it  had 
been  a  dream,  all  his  ministerial  trouble  and  travail,  his 
brief  snatch  at  love,  his  son's  birth  in  sorrow  and  life  in 
defiance  and  death  in  shame.  .  .  .  The  hammers  swung, 
and  the  forge  roared,  and  the  light  fanned  up  to  the 
stars.  .  .  . 

Then  he  woke,  with  the  roar  and  thump  still  in  his 
ears,  for  his  head  hung  down  over  the  straw  below  the 
level  of  his  body.  All  his  limbs  were  cramped,  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  rise.  The  first  despair  of  waking  was 
upon  him,  and  he  wished  he  could  have  died  in  his  dream. 
Bright  sunshine  was  streaming  into  the  barn,  lighting  up 
its  dark  old  corners  where  the  cobwebs  hung  like  lace. 
Framed  in  the  big  doorway  was  a  green  hill  freckled  with 
primroses  and  cuckoo  flowers,  with  broom  bushes  budding 
against  a  thick  blue  sky  that  seemed  to  drip  with  sun- 
shine. 

He  stumbled  out  into  the  stroke  of  the  wind,  now 
scarcely  enough  to  ripple  the  big  rain  puddles  that  lay 


MR.  SUMPTION  305 

blue  and  glimmering  in  the  road.  He  was  in  a  part  of 
the  country  he  did  not  know,  doubtless  beyond  the  fron- 
tiers of  the  Four  Roads,  in  some  by-lane  behind  Rushlake 
Green. 

Though  it  was  too  late,  he  felt  that  even  now  he  could 
not  go  back  to  Sunday  Street.  He  shrank  from  meeting 
human  beings,  especially  those  who  had  sat  before  him  in 
rows  like  pea-pods  last  night.  Oh,  those  heads !  he  would 
never  forget  them,  how  they  had  stared  and  rolled.  .  .  . 
He  turned  away  from  the  road,  and  went  up  the  rising 
ground  behind  the  barn.  It  was  a  spread  of  wild  land, 
some  common  now  in  its  spring  bloom  of  gorse  and 
violets.  He  threw  himself  down  upon  the  turf,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  lay  motionless,  with  the  sun  gently  steam- 
ing his  damp  crumpled  clothes. 

He  longed  to  be  back  in  his  dream,  back  in  the  red 
glow  of  the  furnace,  back  at  the  old  cross-roads  in  Kent. 
A  sense  of  great  cruelty  and  injustice  was  upon  him. 
Why  had  the  Lord  called  him  from  the  work  he  loved, 
away  to  unknown  cares  and  sorrows,  to  a  life  for  which 
he  was  not  fitted?  It  even  seemed  to  him  that  if  only 
he  had  been  left  a  blacksmith  this  tragedy  of  Jerry 
would  not  have  happened  ...  if  Jerry  had  never  been 
in  the  impossible,  grotesque  situation  of  "  a  clergyman's 
son."  .  .  .  Why  had  the  Lord  sent  voices,  which  never 
came  now,  which,  indeed,  had  not  come  since  his  mar- 
riage ?  Why  had  the  Lord  raised  up  the  minister  at  Ten- 
terden,  to  send  him  to  a  training  college  and  try  to  make 
him  what  he  never  could  be,  a  gentleman?  He  was  no 
minister — only  a  poor  image  of  one,  which  everybody 
laughed  at.  He  had  had  qualms  of  doubts  before  this, 
but  he  had  put  them  from  him ;  now  he  was  too  ex- 
hausted, too  badly  bruised  and  beaten,  to  deceive  himself 
any  further.  He  was  no  minister  of  God — he  could 
hardly,  after  a  twelve  years'  pastorate,  scrape  together  a 


306  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

congregation ;  people  went  anywhere  but  to  the  Particular 
Baptists.  They  never  asked  for  his  ministrations  at  sick- 
beds, they  hardly  ever  came  to  him  to  be  married  or 
buried,  as  if  they  doubted  the  efficacy  of  these  rites  at 
his  hands ;  he  had  not  performed  one  baptism  in  the  last 
five  years,  and  the  only  time  his  church  has  been  full  was 
when  they  had  all  come  to  gaze  on  him,  to  see  how  he 
bore  his  trouble.  On  the  other  hand,  if  a  man  had  a  sick 
sheep  or  an  ailing  cow,  or  if  his  horse  went  lame  or 
spoiled  his  knees,  he  called  him  in  at  once.  That  ought  to 
have  shown  him.  He  was  not  a  minister  but  a  farrier, 
and  the  people  of  Sunday  Street  knew  it,  and  treated  him 
accordingly. 

He  lay  with  his  face  hidden  against  the  grass.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  life  had  stopped  like  a  watch,  leaving 
him,  like  a  stopped  watch,  still  in  being.  Jerry,  the  centre 
and  spring  of  his  existence  for  twenty  years,  was  gone  ; 
his  ministry  was  gone — he  could  not  go  back  after  what 
had  happened,  and  no  brethren  would  call  him  elsewhere. 
He  could  not  stay  on  at  Sunday  Street  or  return  to  the 
forge  at  Bethersden.  Here  he  was,  past  middle  age, 
without  friends,  without  kin,  without  livelihood,  without 
resources  of  any  kind.  He  saw  himself  alone  in  a  world 
burning  and  crashing  to  ruin,  a  world  that  bristled  with 
the  crosses  of  martyred  boys  and  was  black  with  the 
dead  hopes  of  their  fathers. 

A  sob  broke  from  him,  but  without  tears.  His  being 
seemed  dried  up.  The  horror  of  thick  darkness  was  upon 
him,  of  this  blasted  world  rocking  and  staggering  to  the 
pit,  of  the  flame  which  devoured  all,  good  and  bad,  elect 
and  damned,  wheat  and  weeds.  Who  could  endure  to  the 
end  of  this  Judgment?  Who  hoped  to  be  saved?  All 
was  burnt  up,  dried,  and  blasted.  The  day  of  the  Lord 
had  come  indeed  and  had  consumed  him  like  a  dry  stick. 

"  My  soul  is  full  of  troubles  and  my  life  draweth  nigh 
unto  the  grave. 


MR.  SUMPTION  307 

"  I  am  counted  with  them  that  go  down  into  the  pit. 

"  Free  among  the  dead,  like  the  slain  that  lie  in  the 
grave,  whom  Thou  rememberest  no  more. 

"  Thou  hast  laid  me  in  the  lowest  pit,  in  darkness,  in 
the  deeps. 

"  Thy  wrath  lieth  hard  upon  me,  and  thou  hast  vexed 
me  with  thy  waves. 

"  Thy  fierce  wrath  goeth  over  me ;  thy  terrors  have  cut 
me  off. 

"  Lover  and  friend  hast  thou  put  from  me,  and  mine 
acquaintance  into  darkness." 


13 

His  hands  clenched  on  the  young  grass,  slowly  drag- 
ging out  bunches  of  tender,  growing  things.  He  began 
to  smell  the  sweetness  of  their  roots,  of  the  soil  that 
clung  to  them — moist,  full  of  sap  and  growth,  of  inevit- 
able rebirth.  These  budding,  springing  things,  growing 
out  of  deadness  into  life  and  warmth,  suddenly  gave  him 
a  little  piteous  thrill  of  joy,  which  broke  into  his  despair 
like  a  trickle  of  rain  into  dry  sods.  The  earth  seemed  to 
hold  a  steadfast  hope  in  her  stillness  and  strength,  in  her 
scent  and  moisture  and  green  life  struggling  out  of  death. 
.  .  .  Those  boys  who  had  cast  themselves  down  on  the 
earth  to  die,  perhaps  they  had  found  this  hope  .  .  . 
perhaps  disgraced  Jerry  slept  with  it.  No  man,  no  blood- 
lusty  power,  could  cheat  them  of  it,  for  even  bodies  blown 
into  a  thousand  pieces  the  earth  takes  into  her  kind  still- 
ness and  makes  them  whole  in  union  with  herself. 

Even  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  the  earth 
had  not  failed  him.  No  one  could  separate  him  from  her 
or  cheat  him  of  his  reward  in  her.  From  her  he  had  come 
and  to  her  he  would  return,  and  in  her  he  would  be  one 
with  those  whom  he  had  lost,  his  dead  wife  and  his  dead 


308  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

son.  There  should  be  no  disgrace  there,  nor  torment,  nor 
tears,  nor  sighing ;  no  parting,  when  all  are  united  in  the 
one  element  and  the  children  are  asleep  together  on  the 
mother's  breast.  .  .  . 

14 

An  hour  later  Mr.  Sumption  had  left  the  green  hill  and 
was  walking  towards  a  little  hamlet  that  showed  its 
gables  at  the  bend  of  the  lane.  Now  that  his  grief  was 
spent,  drunk  up  by  the  earth  like  a  storm,  he  remembered 
that  he  was  hungry,  and  set  out  to  hunt  for  food.  There 
was  an  inn  at  the  beginning  of  the  street,  a  low  house 
slopped  with  yellow  paint  and  swinging  the  sign  of  the 
Star  across  the  road.  Mr.  Sumption  walked  in  and  asked 
the  landlady  for  breakfast ;  then,  upon  her  stare,  changed 
his  demand  to  dinner,  whereat  she  told  him  that  the  Star 
did  not  give  dinners,  and  that  there  was  a  war  on.  How- 
ever, he  managed  at  last  to  persuade  her  to  let  him  have 
some  dry  bread  and  tea,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
he  was  making  the  best  of  them  in  a  little  green,  sunless 
parlour,  rather  pleasantly  stuffy  with  the  ghosts  of  by- 
gone pipes  and  pots. 

The  room  was  in  the  front  of  the  house,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  inn  lay  across  the  road,  licking  the  bottom 
of  the  walls  of  the  houses  opposite.  Above  it  they  rose 
into  a  yellow  glare  of  sunshine,  and  their  roofs  were 
bitten  against  a  heavy  blue  sky.  From  quite  near  came 
the  pleasant  chink  of  iron,  and  craning  his  head  he  saw 
the  daubed  colours  of  a  smith  and  wheelwright  on  a  door 
a  little  further  down  the  street.  It  comforted  him  to 
think  that  there  should  be  a  smith  so  near  him,  and  all 
through  his  meal  he  listened  to  the  clink  and  thud,  with 
sometimes  the  clatter  of  new-shod  hoofs  in  the  road. 

When  he  had  finished  his  dinner  and  paid  his  shilling 
he  went  out  and  up  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  inn  to  the 


MR.  SUMPTION  309 

smith's  door.  The  name  of  the  hamlet  was  Lion's  Green, 
and  he  gathered  he  was  some  ten  miles  from  home,  be- 
yond Horeham  and  Mystole.  It  would  not  take  him  more 
than  a  couple  of  hours  to  get  back  with  his  great  stride, 
so  there  was  time  for  him  to  linger  and  put  off  the  evil 
hour  when  he  must  confront  Mrs.  Hubble  and  explain 
why  he  had  been  out  all  night.  Meantime  he  would  go 
and  watch  the  smith. 

There  was  no  house  opposite  the  forge,  and  the  door- 
way was  full  of  sunshine,  which  streamed  into  the  red 
glare  of  the  furnace.  Mr.  Sumption  stood  in  the  mixing 
light,  a  tall  black  figure,  leaning  against  the  doorpost. 
He  had  smoothed  his  creased  and  grass-stained  clothes 
a  little,  and  taken  out  the  straws  that  had  stuck  in  his 
hair,  but  he  always  looked  ill-shaved  at  the  best  of  times, 
and  to-day  his  face  was  nearly  swallowed  up  in  his  beard. 
The  smith  was  working  single-hand,  and  had  no  time  to 
stare  at  his  visitor.  He  wondered  a  little  who  he  was,  for 
though  he  wore  black  clothes  like  a  minister,  he  was  in 
other  respects  more  like  a  tramp. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Mr.  Sumption  suddenly. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  the  smith,  hesitating  whether 
he  should  add  "  sir,"  but  deciding  not  to. 

"  You  seem  pretty  busy." 

"  Reckon  I  am — unaccountable  busy.  I'm  aloan  now — 
my  man  went  last  week.  Thought  I  wur  saafe  wud  a 
man  of  forty-eight,  but  now  they  raise  the  age  limit  to 
fifty,  and  off  he  goes  into  the  Veterinary  Corps." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  a  hand?  " 

The  smith  stared. 

"  I've  done  a  lot  of  smith's  work,"  continued  Mr. 
Sumption  eagerly.  "  There's  nothing  I  can't  do  with  hoof 
and  iron." 

The  smith  hesitated ;  then  he  saw  the  visitor's  arms  as 
he  took  off  his  coat  and  began  to  roll  up  his  sleeves. 


310  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"  Well,  maybe  ...  if  you  know  aught  .  .  .  there's 
the  liddle  cob  thur  wants  a  shoe." 

A  few  men  and  boys  were  in  the  smithy,  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  and  whispered  a  little.  They  had 
never  seen  such  swingeing,  hairy  arms  as  Mr.  Sumption's. 

A  smile  was  fighting  its  way  across  the  stubble  on  the 
minister's  face.  He  cracked  his  joints  with  satisfaction, 
and  soon  the  little  cob  was  shod  by  as  quick,  as  merciful, 
and  as  sure  a  hand  as  had  ever  touched  him.  His  owner 
looked  surprised. 

"  I'd  never  taake  you  fur  a  smith,"  he  remarked ; 
"  leastways,  not  wud  your  coat  on." 

"  I'm  not  a  smith.    I'm  a  Minister  of  the  Gospel." 

The  men  winked  at  each  other  and  hid  their  mouths. 
Then  one  of  them  asked  suddenly : 

"  Are  you  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sumption  from  Sunday 
Street?" 

"  Reckon  I  am.    Do  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  I  doan't  know  you,  surelye ;  but  we've  all  heard  as 
the  minister  of  Sunday  Street  can  shoe  a  horse  wud  any 
smith,  and  postwoman  wur  saying  this  marnun  as  he'd 
gone  off  nobody  knows  whur,  after  telling  all  his  folk  in 
a  sermon  as  they'd  started  the  War." 

Mr.  Sumption  looked  uncomfortable. 

"  I  only  went  for  a  bit  of  a  tramp,  and  lost  my  way 
.  .  .  I've  no  call  to  be  home  before  sundown — so,  if 
you've  any  use  for  me,  master,  I  can  stop  and  give  you 
a  hand  this  afternoon." 

The  smith  was  willing  enough,  for  he  was  hard-pressed, 
and  the  fame  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sumption  had  spread 
far  beyond  the  country  of  the  Four  Roads.  The  strength 
of  his  great  arms,  his  resource,  his  knowledge,  his  ex- 
perience of  all  smithwork,  made  him  an  even  more  val- 
uable assistant  than  the  man  who  had  gone.  There  was 
a  market  that  day  at  Chiddingly,  which  meant  more 


MR.  SUMPTION  311 

work  than  usual,  including  several  wheelwright's  jobs, 
which  the  smith  performed  himself,  leaving  the  horses 
to  Mr.  Sumption.  The  furnace  roared  as  the  bellows 
gasped,  and  lit  up  all  the  sag-roofed  forge,  with  the  dark 
shapes  of  men  and  horses  standing  round,  and  the  min- 
ister holding  down  the  red-hot  iron  among  the  coals  or 
beating  it  on  the  anvil,  while  his  sweating  skin  was  shiny 
and  crimson  in  the  glow. 

It  was  like  his  dream  of  the  forge  at  Bethersden — and 
he  felt  almost  happy.  The  glow  of  his  body  seemed  to 
reach  his  heart  and  warm  it,  and  his  head  was  no  longer 
full  of  doubts  like  stones.  He  had  found  a  refuge  here, 
as  he  had  found  it  in  old  days  in  Mus'  Bourner's  forge  at 
Sunday  Street — the  heat,  the  roar,  the  flying  sparks,  the 
shaking  crimson  light,  the  smell  of  sweat  and  hoofs  and 
horse-hide,  the  pleasant  ache  of  labour  in  his  limbs,  were 
all  part  of  the  healing  which  had  begun  when  he  rubbed 
his  cheek  against  the  wet  soil  on  the  common.  His 
religion  had  always  taught  him  to  look  on  his  big  friendly 
body  as  his  enemy,  to  subdue  and  thwart  and  ignore  it. 
He  had  not  known  till  then  how  much  it  was  his  friend, 
and  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  Redemption  of  the 
Body,  the  mystic  act  through  which  the  body  saves  and 
redeems  the  soul. 

He  worked  on  till  the  sun  grew  pale,  and  a  tremulous 
primrose  light  crept  over  the  fields  of  Lion's  Green, 
swamping  the  trees  and  hedges  and  grazing  cows.  The 
afternoon  was  passing  into  the  evening,  and  Mr.  Sump- 
tion knew  he  must  start  at  once  if  he  was  to  be  home 
that  day. 

"  Well,  I'm  middling  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  the  smith. 
"  A  man  lik  you's  wasted  preaching  the  Gospel." 

"  Reckon  I  shan't  do  much  more  of  that,"  said  Mr. 
Sumption  wryly.  "  I  can't  go  back  to  my  Bethel,  after 
what's  happened." 


312  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

"Well,  if  ever  you  feel  you'd  lik  to  turn  blacksmith 
fur  a  change "  the  smith  remarked,  with  a  grin. 

"  I  shall  go  into  the  Army  Veterinary  Corps,"  said 
Mr.  Sumption. 

"Wot!    Lik  my  man?" 

"  Like  the  man  I  was  meant  to  be.  I  agree  with  you, 
master — I'm  wasted  preaching  the  Gospel.  I'd  be  better 
as  a  veterinary  .  .  .  I've  been  thinking.  ..." 


15 

There  was  a  farmer  driving  as  far  as  Adam's  Hole  on 
the  Hailsham  Road,  and  he  offered  Mr.  Sumption  a  lift 
in  his  trap.  The  minister  had  shod  his  little  sorrel  mare, 
and  with  her  hoofs  ringing  on  the  clinkered  road  they 
drove  from  Lion's  Green,  away  towards  the  east.  The 
dipping  sun  poured  upon  their  backs,  flooding  the  lane 
and  washing  along  their  shadows  ahead  of  them  into  the 
swale.  The  east  was  still  bright,  and  out  of  it  crept  the 
moon,  frail  and  papery,  like  the  petal  of  a  March  flower. 

The  little  mare  spanked  quickly  over  the  way  on  her 
new-shod  hoofs.  Through  Soul  Street  and  Horeham 
Flat,  by  Badbrooks  and  Coarse  Horn  on  the  lip  of  the 
Marsh  rolled  the  trap,  with  the  minister  nearly  silent  and 
the  farmer  talking  about  the  War — till  the  oasts  of 
Adam's  Hole  showed  their  red  turrets  against  a  wood, 
and,  declining  an  invitation  to  step  in  and  hear  half  a 
dozen  more  good  reasons  why  the  Germans  would  never 
get  the  Channel  Ports,  Mr.  Sumption  tramped  off  to 
where  the  East  Road  swung  into  the  flats. 

The  sun  was  now  low,  and  the  sunk  light  touched  the 
moon,  so  that  her  smudged  arc  kindled  and  shone  out  of 
the  cold  dimness.  Red  and  yellow  gleams  wavered  over 
the  country  of  the  Four  Roads,  sweeping  up  the  meadows 
towards  Three  Cups  Corner,  and  lighting  the  woods  that 


MR.  SUMPTION  313 

blotched  the  chimneys  of  Brownbread  Street.  He  saw 
Sunday  Street  slitting  the  hill  with  a  red  gape,  and  the 
sheen  of  the  ponds  by  Puddledock,  and  the  flare  of  gorse 
and  broom  on  Magham  Down.  There  was  a  great  clear- 
ness and  cleanness  in  the  watery  air,  so  that  he  could  see 
the  roofs  of  farmsteads  far  away  and  little  cottages  stand- 
ing alone  like  toadstools  in  the  fields.  Sounds  came 
clearly,  too — there  was  a  great  clucking  on  all  the  farms, 
and  the  lowing  of  cows;  now  and  then  the  bark  of  a  dog 
came  sharply  from  a  great  way  off,  sheep  called  their 
lambs  in  the  meadows  by  Harebeating,  and  a  boy  was 
singing  reedily  at  Cowlease  Farm.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  very  still,  very  lovely,  steeped  through  with 
the  spirit  of  peace — not  even  the  beat  of  the  guns  could 
be  heard  to-night.  These  were  the  fields  for  which  the 
boys  in  France  had  died,  the  farms  and  lanes  they  had 
sealed  in  the  possession  of  their  ancient  peace  by  a  cove- 
nant signed  in  blood.  As  Mr.  Sumption  looked  round 
him  at  the  country  slowly  sinking  into  the  twilight,  a 
little  of  its  quiet  crept  into  his  heart.  These  were  the 
fields  for  which  the  boys  had  died.  They  had  not  died  for 
England — what  did  they  know  of  England  and  the  British 
Empire?  They  had  died  for  a  little  corner  of  ground 
which  was  England  to  them,  and  the  sprinkling  of  poor 
common  folk  who  lived  in  it.  Before  their  dying  eyes 
had  risen  not  the  vision  of  England's  glory,  but  just  these 
fields  he  looked  on  now,  with  the  ponds,  and  the  woods, 
and  the  red  roofs  .  .  .  and  the  women  and  children  and 
old  people  who  lived  among  them — the  very  same  whom 
last  night  he  had  scolded  and  cursed,  told  they  were 
scarce  worth  preaching  at.  For  the  first  time  he  felt 
ashamed  of  that  affair.  He  might  not  think  them  worth 
preaching  at,  but  other  men,  and  better  men,  had  found 
them  worth  dying  for. 

Then,  as  he  walked  on  towards  Font's  Green,  he  saw 


314  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

these  fields  as  the  eternal  possession  of  the  boys  who  had 
died — bought  by  their  blood.  The  country  of  the  Four 
Roads  was  theirs  for  ever — they  had  won  it;  and  this 
was  true  not  only  of  the  honoured  Tom  but  of  the  dis- 
honoured Jerry.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  at  rest  about 
his  son.  "  Somewhere  the  love  of  God  is  holding  him. 
.  .  ."  He  could  not  picture  him  in  heaven,  and  he  would 
not  picture  him  in  hell ;  but  now  he  could  see  him  as  part 
of  the  fields  that  he,  in  his  indirect  shameful  way,  had 
died  for.  Surely  his  gipsy  soul  could  find  rest  in  their 
dawns  and  twilights,  in  the  infinite  calm  of  their  noons. 
.  .  .  Jerry  would  be  near  him  at  the  pond  side,  in  the 
meadow,  in  the  smoke  of  the  forge,  in  the  murmur  and 
shade  of  the  wood  .  .  .  and  the  cool  winds  blowing 
from  the  sea  would  wipe  off  his  dishonour. 

16 

The  lanes  were  empty  for  it  was  supper-time  on  the 
farms.  A  pale  green  was  washing  the  rim  of  the  sky, 
and  the  starlight  shook  among  the  ash-trees  that  trembled 
beside  the  road.  Faint  scents  of  hidden  primroses  stole 
up  from  the  banks  with  the  vital  sweetness  of  the  new- 
sown  ploughlands.  It  was  growing  cold,  and  Mr.  Sump- 
tion walked  briskly.  When  he  came  to  Font's  Green  he 
thought  he  saw  the  back  of  old  Hubble  tottering  on  ahead, 
so  he  slackened  his  pace  a  little,  for  he  hoped  to  get 
home  without  meeting  any  of  his  congregation.  The  feel- 
ing of  shame  was  growing,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  despised 
Christ's  little  ones  .  .  .  after  all,  who  shall  be  found 
big  enough  to  fit  the  times?  What  man  is  built  to  the 
stature  of  Doomsday? 

He  heard  himself  called  as  he  entered  the  village,  and 
turning  his  head,  saw  Thyrza  standing  in  the  shop  door, 
the  last  light  gleaming  on  her  apron. 


MR.  SUMPTION  315 

"  Mus'  Sumption ! — is  that  you  ?  " 

He  thought  of  going  on,  pretending  not  to  hear;  but 
there  was  a  gentleness  in  Thyrza's  voice  which  touched 
him.  He  remembered  the  message  she  had  sent  him  yes- 
terday morning.  "  She's  a  kind  soul,"  he  thought,  and 
stopped. 

"  Oh,  Mus'  Sumption — whur  have  you  bin  ?  " 

Her  hand  closed  warmly  on  his,  and  her  eyes  travelled 
over  him  in  eagerness  and  pity. 

"  I've  been  over  to  Lion's  Green,"  said  Mr.  Sumption. 
"  I  couldn't  lie  quiet  at  the  Horselunges  last  night.  I 
reckon  tongues  are  wagging  a  bit." 

"  Reckon  they  are — but  we'll  all  be  justabout  glad  to 
see  you  back.  I  went  up  only  this  afternoon  and  asked 
Policeman  if  he  cud  do  aught.  Come  in  to  the  fire — you 
look  middling  tired." 

"  I've  been  working  at  the  smith's  over  at  Lion's  Green 
all  the  afternoon,"  said  the  minister  proudly. 

"  Surelye !  Everyone  knows  wot  a  valiant  smith  you 
maake ;  but  come  in  and  have  a  bite  of  supper.  The 
fire's  bright  and  the  kettle's  boiling,  and  thur's  a  bit  of 
bacon  in  the  pan." 

Mr.  Sumption's  mouth  watered.  He  had  had  nothing 
that  day  except  the  bread  and  tea  provided  at  the  inn, 
and  it  was  not  likely  that  Mrs.  Hubble  would  have  much 
of  a  meal  awaiting  him.  True,  it  was  doubtful  morality 
to  encroach  on  Thyrza's  bacon  ration,  but  Thyrza  her- 
self encouraged  the  lapse,  pulling  at  his  hand,  and  open- 
ing the  shop  door  behind  her,  so  that  his  temptations 
might  be  reinforced  by  the  smell  of  cooking. 

"  Come  in,  and  you  shall  have  the  best  rasher  you 
ever  ate  in  your  life — and  eggs  and  hot  tea  and  a  bit  of 
pudden  and  a  fire  to  your  feet." 

She  led  him  through  the  shop,  whence  the  bottles  of 
sweets  had  vanished  long  ago,  and  the  empty  spaces 


316  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

were  filled  with  large  cardboard  posters,  displaying 
Thyrza's  licence  to  sell  margarine,  and  the  Government 
list  of  prices — through  into  the  little  back  room,  where 
the  firelight  covered  the  walls  with  nodding  spindles,  and 
little  Will  lay  in  his  cradle  fast  asleep. 

"  I  have  him  in  here  fur  company  like,"  said  Thyrza. 
"  Reckon  he  sleeps  as  well  as  in  the  bed,  and  it  aun't  so 
lonesome  fur  me." 

For  the  first  time  he  heard  her  sorrow  drag  at  her 
voice,  and  noticed,  as,  manlike,  he  had  not  done  before, 
her  widow's  dress  with  its  white  collar  and  cuffs. 

"  God  bless  you,  Mrs.  Tom,"  he  said,  and  she  turned 
quickly  away  from  him  to  the  fire. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  humming  of  the  kettle  and  the  hiss  of  fat  in  the  pan. 
Mr.  Sumption  lay  back  in  an  armchair,  more  tired  than 
he  would  care  to  own.  The  window  was  uncurtained,  and 
in  the  square  of  it  he  saw  the  big  stars  of  the  Wain  .  .  . 
according  to  the  lore  both  of  the  country  of  the  Four 
Roads  and  of  his  old  home  in  Kent,  this  was  the  waggon 
in  which  the  souls  of  the  dead  rode  over  the  sky,  and 
that  night  he,  in  spite  of  his  theological  training,  and 
Thyrza,  in  spite  of  her  Board  School  education,  both  felt 
an  echo  of  the  old  superstition  in  their  hearts.  Did  Tom 
and  Jerry  ride  there  past  the  window,  aloft  and  at  rest 
in  the  great  spaces,  while  those  who  loved  them  struggled 
on  in  the  old  fret  and  the  new  loneliness  ? 

"  I  always  kip  the  blind  up  till  the  last  minnut,"  said 
Thyrza  at  the  fire.  "  It  aun't  so  lonesome  fur  me.  Hovv- 
sumdever,  I've  company  to-night,  and  I  mun  git  the 
lamp." 

So  the  lamp  was  set  on  the  table,  and  the  blind  came 
down  and  shut  out  Tom  and  Jerry  on  their  heavenly 
ride.  Mr.  Sumption  pulled  his  chair  up  to  a  big  plate 
of  eggs  and  bacon,  with  a  cup  of  tea  beside  it,  and  fell  to 


MR.  SUMPTION  317 

after  the  shortest  grace  Thyrza  had  ever  heard  from  him. 

"  Reckon  I'm  hungry,  reckon  I'm  tired — and  you,  Mrs. 
Tom,  are  as  the  widow  of  Zarephath,  who  ministered  to 
Elijah  in  the  dearth.  May  you  be  rewarded  and  find  your 
bacon  ration  as  the  widow's  cruse  this  week." 

He  was  beginning  definitely  to  enjoy  her  company. 
Thyrza's  charm  was  of  the  comfortable,  pervasive  kind 
that  attracted  all  sorts  of  men  in  every  station.  He 
found  that  he  liked  to  listen  to  her  soft,  drawly  voice, 
to  watch  her  slow,  heavy  movements,  to  gaze  at  her 
tranquil  face  with  the  hair  like  flowering  grass.  She  at 
once  soothed  and  stimulated  him.  She  encouraged  him 
to  talk,  and  when  the  edge  was  off  his  appetite,  he  did  so, 
telling  her  a  little  of  what  had  happened  to  him  the  last 
night  and  day. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  I've  learned  by  it  all,  Mrs. 
Tom  ?  What  do  you  think  my  trouble's  taught  me  ?  " 

Thyrza  shook  her  head.  In  her  simple  life  trouble 
came  and  went  without  any  lesson  but  its  patient  bearing. 

"  It's  taught  me  I'm  a  blacksmith,  and  no  minister." 

"  Reckon  you're  both,"  said  Thyrza. 

"  No — I'm  not — I'm  just  the  smith.  And  to  prove  it 
to  you,  from  this  day  forward  I  shall  not  teach  or  preach 
another  word." 

"  Wot !  give  up  the  Bethel ! — not  be  minister  here  any 
more?" 

"  Not  here  nor  anywhere.  I'm  no  minister — I've  never 
been  a  minister." 

«  But " 

"  There's  no  good  arguing.  My  mind's  made  up.  I 
shall  write  to  the  Assembly  this  very  night." 

«  Oh " 

"  How  shall  I  dare  to  teach  and  guide  others,  who 
could  not  even  teach  and  guide  my  own  son?  No,  don't 
interrupt  me — the  Lord  has  opened  my  eyes,  and  I  see 


318  THE  FOUR  ROADS 

myself  as  just  a  poor,  plain,  ignorant  man.  Reckon  I'm 
only  the  common  blacksmith  I  was  born  and  bred,  and 
trying  to  make  myself  different  has  led  to  nothing  but 
pain  and  trouble,  both  for  me  and  for  others.  I  ask  you 
what  good  has  my  ministry  ever  done  a  human  soul  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mus'  Sumption,  doan't  spik  lik  that,"  said 
Thyrza,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Reckon  I'll  never 
disremember  how  beautiful  you  talked  of  Tom  last  night 
.  .  .  and  oh,  the  comfort  it  guv  me  to  hear  you  talk  so !  " 

"You're  a  good  soul,  Missus — reckon  there's  none  I 
could  speak  to  as  I'm  speaking  to  you  now.  But  you 
mustn't  think  high  of  me — I  spoke  ill  last  night;  I  was 
like  Peter  before  the  Lord  let  down  the  sheet  on  him — 
calling  His  creatures  common  and  unclean.  I've  failed 
as  a  minister,  and  I've  failed  as  a  father — the  only  thing 
I  haven't  failed  as  is  a  blacksmith;  thank  the  Lord  I've 
still  some  credit  left  at  that." 

He  hid  his  face  for  a  moment.  Thyrza  felt  confused 
.  .  .  she  scarcely  understood. 

"  Then  wot  ull  you  do,  Mus'  Sumption,  if  you  mean 
to  be  minister  no  more  ?  " 

"  Join  the  A.V.C. — Army  Veterinary  Corps.  I  see  as 
plain  as  daylight  that's  my  job." 

"Wot!    Go  and  fight?" 

"  Reckon  there  won't  be  much  fighting  for  a  chap  of 
my  age.  But  I'll  be  useful  in  my  way.  I  hear  they're 
short  of  farriers  and  smiths.  Besides,  they're  calling  up 
all  fit  men  under  fifty,  and  I  can't  claim  exemption  as  a 
minister,  seeing  I  ain't  one;  and  reckon  Mr.  Smith  ull 
go  now  Randall  Cantuar  and  Charles  John  Chichester 
have  said  he  may.  ...  So  I'm  off  to  Lewes  to-morrow, 
Mrs.  Tom." 

"We  shall  miss  you  unaccountable.  Besides,  it  aun't 
the  life  fur  a  man  lik  you." 

He  laughed.     "  That's  just  where  you're  wrong — it's 


MR.  SUMPTION  319 

the  very  proper  life  for  a  man  like  me,  it's  the  life  I 
should  have  been  leading  the  last  thirty  years.  How- 
soever, it's  not  too  late  to  mend,  and  reckon  I'll  be  glad 
to  have  my  part  in  the  big  job  at  last.  Here's  thirty 
years  that  I've  been  preaching  the  Day  of  the  Lord,  and 
now's  my  chance  of  helping  that  day  through  a  bit." 

He  stood  up  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"  Oh,  doan't  be  going  yit,  Mus'  Sumption." 

"  Reckon  I  must — I've  all  sorts  of  things  to  do.  Don't 
be  sorry  for  me — I'm  doing  the  happiest  thing  I  ever  did 
as  well  as  the  best.  I'll  be  doing  the  work  I  was  born 
for,  and  I'll  be  helping  the  world  through  judgment,  and 
I'll  be  doing  what  I  owe  my  boy — your  boy — all  the  boys 
that  are  dead." 

Thyrza's  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  he  spoke  of  Tom. 
For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  forget  his  surroundings, 
and  to  fancy  himself  back  in  the  pulpit  he  had  renounced, 
for  he  held  up  his  hand  and  his  voice  came  throatily : 

"  Behold  the  day  cometh  that  shall  burn  as  an  oven ; 
and  all  the  proud,  yea,  and  all  that  do  wickedly  shall  be 
as  stubble.  But  unto  you  that  fear  My  name  shall  the 
Sun  of  Righteousness  arise  with  healing  in  His  wings. 
And  He  shall  turn  the  heart  of  the  fathers  to  their  chil- 
dren, and  the  heart  of  the  children  to  their  fathers.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Thyrza,  the  world  is  sown  over  with  young,  brave 
lives,  and  it's  our  job  to  see  that  they  are  not  as  the  seed 
scattered  by  the  wayside,  sown  in  vain.  Reckon  we  must 
water  them  with  our  tears  and  manure  them  with  our 
works,  and  so  we  shall  quicken  the  harvest  of  Aceldama, 
when  our  beloved  shall  rise  again.  ..." 

His  voice  strangled  a  little;  then  he  continued  in  his 
ordinary  tones : 

"  That's  why  I'm  joining  up.  I  owe  it  to  Jerry — to 
finish  what  he  began.  By  working  hard,  and  submitting 
to  orders,  as  he  could  never  do,  poor  soul,  maybe  I'll  be 


320 


THE  FOUR  ROADS 


able  to  clear  off  the  debt  he  owed.  He  shall  rise  again 
in  his  father's  effort.  ..." 

Thyrza  was  crying  now.  "And  Tom?"  she  asked  in 
her  tears  —  "  I  want  to  do  summat  for  him,  too,  Mus' 
Sumption.  How  shall  Tom  rise  up  agaun?  " 

He  pointed  to  the  cradle  at  her  feet  : 

"  There's  your  Tom  —  risen  again  both  for  you  and  for 
his  country.  Take  him  and  be  comforted." 

She  sank  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  cradle,  hiding 
her  face  under  the  hood,  and  he  turned  and  left  her,  stalk- 
ing out  through  the  shop  into  the  darkness. 

Crouching  there  in  the  firelight,  with  her  baby  held 
warm  and  heavy  against  her  breast,  she  heard  his  tread 
grow  fainter  and  fainter,  till  at  last  only  an  occasional 
throb  of  wind  brought  her  the  footsteps  of  the  lonely  man 
upon  the  road. 


THE   END 


c. 

***      . 


^* 


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A     000103603 


STRATFORD  8,  GREEN 

BOOKSELLERS 

642-6*4  SO.  MAIN  ST. 

--V   SPRING    ST. 


